


Choral

by Garrae



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Romance, Singing, choir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22252684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: "It was nearly Christmas, and Castle found himself missing the joyous sounds of traditional hymns and carols; the complex harmonies of a well-drilled choir, and the companionship of other singers...he'd ask around the precinct. There must be something…" Christmas fluff, with singing.CastleFicathonWinter2019
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to Fanfiction.net.

Richard Castle liked singing. He was also rather good at it ( _theatre, you know_ , he’d shrug at anyone who commented) and, even better, a baritone, which meant that there was always a place in any choir for him, albeit often with the basses. Baritones were, um, desirable.

As was he, of course, which wasn’t always helpful. His tolerance for screeching sopranos with no sense of tune, rhythm, or simply _shutting up_ was remarkably low for an otherwise amiable man, but every screeching soprano was also a potential book buyer, and he certainly didn’t want to annoy his public. Still, being chased around the back of the choir stalls by pulchritudinous women, looking for a chance to try out his (overhyped) reputation as the most indiscriminate lover since Casanova, had palled some many years back, and, consequently, so had choral singing.

However, it was nearly Christmas, and Castle found himself missing the joyous sounds of traditional hymns and carols; the complex harmonies of a well-drilled choir, and the companionship of other singers. He appreciated that it was a touch late to be trying to join, but he could sight read, he could hold his note, and he thought that male singers weren’t so thick on the ground (even in Manhattan) that he’d be turned down flat.

And then he had a better thought. Rather than Googling and making many phone calls, he’d ask around the precinct. There must be something…

***

Kate Beckett loved singing, though that was a well-kept secret from the rest of the Twelfth’s homicide bullpen. She had, she knew (but never mentioned) a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice, and was consequently a major player in the choir she attended – weekly, without fail. Presently, they were practising for Christmas, which was the only part of Christmas which she liked. All the rest was unnecessary fuss and nonsense, but the carols and hymns, the late night Christmas Eve service, and the real meaning behind the day, spoke to something deep within her, soothing her dislike of the season.

Not that she admitted it, of course. She never admitted to anything personal, or a feeling or emotion unrelated to hunting down criminals and killers. It would _ruin_ her badass reputation if she were known to have even the tiniest hint of a softer side.

For that reason alone, she hadn’t sought out the NYPD choir. Instead, she’d scouted around the vicinity of the Twelfth, and found a choir nearby. It wasn’t large, in fact, it was barely big enough for six-part pieces, and it was distinctly skewed to women, with a few token tenors and one lonely bass. 

Well. Nearly lonely. The bass was Beckett’s long-time pal, O’Leary, whose six-ten height and fifty-four inch chest allowed him to replace three normal-sized men quite happily. Astonishingly, he could carry a tune, and having lungs the size of Arizona allowed him to produce a volume loud enough, had he tried, to vibrate the building. He didn’t try. He and Beckett happily sang their detectival hearts out in company with a strange assortment of others, about whose occupations they did not inquire. Their own occupations were sufficiently obvious that people tended not to stay to chat with them, although the choirmaster was very content to have them.

Now, post-rehearsal, Beckett and O’Leary had found their way to a bar – the same bar they always ended up in after choir practice – and were contentedly sipping beers in perfect harmony.

Until O’Leary’s pale blue eyes gleamed with mischief and his lips moulded into an evil grin.

“So, butterfly” –

“Don’t _call_ me that, Bigfoot!”

“But it suits you.”

Beckett growled and grumbled and groused. O’Leary merely grinned.

“Anyways, so who’s this Castle guy you keep talkin’ about?”

“You _what_ now?” Beckett’s beer adorned the table, along with her disgust.

“Waalllll, you been mentionin’ him ev’ry other minute, so…”

Beckett punched O’Leary’s arm, which had almost as much effect on him as a zephyr of breeze would on his buzz cut. “I do _not_!” she insisted.

“Do so. All about how annoyin’ he is an’ how he keeps pesterin’ you an’ how he’s never away” –

“’S all true. He’s a pain.”

“Mm. Mebbe so. But what I ain’t hearin’ in there somewheres is you tellin’ him to get gone.”

“Can’t.”

“Don’t believe you. Iffen you wanted him gone, he’d be gone.” O’Leary smirked fit to have himself shot, if only Beckett had an elephant-suitable gun (not that she’d want to shoot an elephant: she loved elephants. The best day of her life had been meeting a baby elephant in the Zoo) instead of her Glock, which wouldn’t make enough of an impact even at point-blank range.

“He’s got Montgomery and the Mayor.” She descended into beer and black muttering. O’Leary continued to grin evilly.

“I think you like him,” he hummed. “You got that sparkle in your eye.”

“ _What_?” Beckett screeched. “I do _not_!”

“Don’t make that noise. It hurts my delicate ears an’ you won’t be able to sing nicely – an’ you want that solo to stay with you, don’t you?”

More beer poured down the Beckett throat, to soothe the Beckett vocal cords, naturally. Of course she wanted to keep her solo. There wasn’t a single other singer in the choir who could even come close to her. Well, none of the women, anyway. O’Leary had a great voice, if you ignored the way it made your bones shudder and the ceiling shake.

“Don’t like him,” she huffed.

“That’s not what your mini-ME says, neither.”

“You talked to _Lanie_? You…you…you _rats_!”

“Now, now,” O’Leary soothed, patting her head. “You need somethin’ that isn’t yellin’ at the boys an’ shootin’ lowlifes. You don’t go out, an’ you’re not stayin’ in with anyone, an’ that ain’t healthy. You need some fun. Spread those butterfly wings,” he chortled.

“You sound just like Lanie,” Beckett sulked.

“That’s ‘cause we’re right.”

“I’ll shoot her, too.”

“Naw. You won’t shoot either of us, ‘cause we’re your pals.”

“Just watch me.”

“I’d have to arrest you, an’ that wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

Beckett relapsed into another round of grousing and grumbling.

“Anyways, you should give it a go. Spirit of givin’ and all that.” He hummed a note. Annoyingly, O’Leary had perfect pitch. Not sufficiently under his breath, he sang, “Love came down at Christmas”. Beckett did not join in. Instead, she glared at her beer bottle, which barely resisted shattering, and then at O’Leary, who simply smiled, infuriatingly not terrified or even mildly perturbed.

“Shut up.”

“I wanna meet this guy.”

“Not happening.” Beckett pulled on the remains of her beer in a very conversation-ending fashion. “You were off-key in the final section of the cantata.”

“I was _not_!” O’Leary squawked, indignation at full volume. The table wobbled. Beckett sniggered nastily. “Meanie,” he sulked. “See if I compliment you next time we duet.”

“You never do. So I won’t miss anything.”

Sometime later, they finished their beers and departed.

***

Castle, almost a week later, had discovered that there was no precinct choir, which was disappointing, but that a small choir existed almost around the corner. After a brief try-out, which took no longer than it did to establish that he was male, baritone, and not flat, he was told to arrive the following day, and given the music. Thankfully, it was largely traditional carols and Christmas choral pieces, most of which he already knew. Still, not wishing to be caught out or look foolish, he spent some time listening to YouTube renderings of the unfamiliar scores, and then brushed up on his sight reading, sadly neglected.

“What are you doing, darling?” his mother inquired, sipping – hang on, that was his _good_ white wine, carefully hidden to _avoid_ his mother drinking it all.

“Drowning my sorrows in song, since you’ve stolen the wine in which I planned to submerge them,” he riposted.

His mother raised an elegant eyebrow. “I live here.”

“I know,” Castle sighed. “My booze bill tells me so, every week. Now pass over _my_ wine, so that I can try it before you finish it.”

His mother cocked an inquisitive eye at him. “Still moping about your detective’s lack of interest? You need to find a new hobby.”

“I have,” he said smugly. “I’ve joined a choir.”

“So that you’ll be in tune when you try to serenade the girl?” she snipped.

“Indeed, Mother. Unlike your efforts last night, which were sadly off-key, no doubt due to the amount of wine – of mine – you had consumed.”

Martha huffed, offended. “How unfair. I think you should devote your attention to charming your detective, because it’s clear that you’ll continue to act like a bear with a sore head until you manage it.” She made a theatrical exit in high dudgeon, but still managed to take the glass and bottle with her.

Castle knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. He wasn’t. His mother had irritated him, which was normal, and he’d bitten back, which wasn’t. But he wasn’t ashamed. He was tired of never getting to drink his own wine, tired of being twitted about Beckett, and tired of the endless dark and sleet-rain of early December. The joy of Thanksgiving had palled, and the joy of Christmas-tide hadn’t yet shown itself.

He went out to his first venture into the choir in a less-than celebratory mood.

The small church that he entered almost instantly soothed his abraded emotions. It wasn’t decorated – in fact, it was completely plain: whitewashed, no stained glass or carved woodwork, no ornament on the pews or pulpit – but it radiated peace, contentment, and a sense of infinite time and place: the greatness of the Spirit to whom it was dedicated. Castle wasn’t a great church-goer, except Christmas and sometimes Easter, but he recognised and appreciated the faith of those who were.

He took a deep breath, greeted the choirmaster, and was directed to the back of the stalls.

“So,” the choirmaster said to him, escorting him in case he lost his way in the ten yards or so, “it’ll be nice to have another male voice. Baritone, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. We’ve got a bass, but there’s only one of him, and a handful of tenors, but we really need more male voices. As ever, there are plenty of women, though there’s one standout voice – pals with the bass. You can’t miss her.” He bustled off, having done his introductory duty, and Castle sat in a pew, waiting for whatever turned up next.

Wow. Whatever turned up next was a giant. Goliath. Gog or Magog – or a Titan from Greek lore. He was _huge_. His eyes fell on Castle, and he smiled, wide in his homely, blue-eyed face. It made him much less threatening, though no less large.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re new. Nice to see someone new. What d’you sing?”

“Baritone. I guess you’re the bass?”

“Sure. I’m Colm.” He held out a paw that would swamp Central Park. 

“I’m Rick,” Castle said, shook, and definitely didn’t give his surname. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too. How much singing have you done?”

“Used to do quite a lot, but I’ve been out for a while.” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“Sure do. I make time for this, but I ain’t got much spare after that.” They exchanged understandingly sympathetic glances. “You know the music?”

“Some of it. The carols and hymns, sure – as long as you’re not doing completely new music?”

“Naw,” Goliath drawled. “We keep it traditional-like.”

“Good. So I know most of that, but I haven’t sung the choral pieces before, I don’t think. I can sight read, though, so I’ll get by, and once I’ve heard it sung I’ll pick it up better.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, which wasn’t something Castle often did. “If I’m not up to scratch I’ll slink off,” he said.

“If Ben’s approved you” – Ben was obviously the choirmaster – “then you c’n sing. He’d know, an’ nice as he is, if you can’t sing, you wouldn’t be here.” Castle grinned. “Anyways, it’s just about time to start. I c’n see the girls” – Castle blinked – “comin’ in. Let’s get settled.”

Castle followed his new friend in standing up, but found himself at an angle where he couldn’t really see the women through the tenors, who were (quite deliberately, he thought, knowing tenors) making sure that they had a perfect view of the female majority. He caught a flick of profile, framed in brunette hair, which reminded him of Beckett, but she’d never, ever mentioned that she could, would, or did sing; and her commentary on holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas had left him with a very clear impression that she’d see the whole world swallowed by a supernova before she managed an iota of celebration.

Warm-up over, after which Castle swore he could feel the marrow of his bones shivering from the sub-bass resonances of the monster beside him, they began on the main repertoire. After the first couple of well-known hymns, Colm looked down from Olympus and grinned. “You’re better than you made out.”

“So are you,” Castle replied. “I’ve heard professionals do a lot worse.”

Colm raised caterpillar eyebrows. “Do a lot of theatre stuff, do you?”

“Yeah. Grew up around it. I still go, when I’ve time.”

Castle was being more than a little disingenuous, but he’d taken an instant liking to Colm-the-Colossus and he didn’t want it spoiled by recognition. Colm hadn’t recognised him – or was one _hell_ of an actor – and that was just fine.

The choirmaster recalled them to their music. The carols continued – _Good King Wenceslas_ , _God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen_ , _The Holly and The Ivy_ – and the traditional hymns, sung with full heart and lungs.

“Okay,” Ben said. “We’ll do the full cantata, and then we’ll finish off with the solos.

Colm grinned. “Not much in the way of bass solos. All for those pretty-pretty tenor voices.”

The Christmas cantata took much more work. Time and again they were stopped and restarted; until everyone was sick of it.

“Enough,” Ben pronounced. “We’ll come back to it next time. Let’s finish off with the solos. _The Saviour of the World is Born_ first.”

The tenor was good, somewhat to Castle’s surprise, but confined to the first verse, after which the rest of the choir joined in.

“Lovely,” Ben complimented. The tenor, in the way of all tenors of Castle’s acquaintance, preened; and sneaked peeks for adoring glances from the soprano and alto sections, which were not much in evidence, unlike his disappointment. “Now, last one – _Once in Royal David’s City_.” He gave the signal.

Castle’s mouth fell open. The female voice that opened the hymn was breathtakingly beautiful: not a true soprano but a beautiful, velvety mezzo that coated the church with sound; filling every space with the meaning of the season. He was so struck by the voice that he almost missed the entrance of the rest of the choir, and it took a nudge from Colm to recall him to reality.

“Liked the solo, did you?” Colm grinned.

“Gorgeous,” Castle admitted with total sincerity.

“Whyn’t you come for a drink?”

“Uh, okay.”

“Meet the singer. Don’t look like you’re married, an’ I guess you ain’t got a girlfriend right now either, ‘cause she’d have come along with you.”

“Only if she liked singing. But no, I don’t have anyone right now.” He had a sudden, wistful thought of Beckett, but that was a pipe dream. “Yeah, I’ll come for a drink.”

“Okay, let’s go. She’ll catch us up. It’s my turn to get the beers in” –

“I’ll buy.”

“You c’n get the second round. That way you’ll know what we like.”

“Sounds good,” Castle acquiesced, and they sauntered off, perfectly in harmony.

***

Beckett had only just made choir on time, though (she thought) at least she hadn’t been delayed by Castle propounding ridiculous theories and generally getting in the way. She hadn’t seen him since mid-afternoon, which she told herself was a good thing. She took her place, and noticed vaguely, through the thicket of tenors, that there appeared to be a new person, mostly hidden by O’Leary’s bulk. She didn’t think any more of it, though she did notice the baritone input, and enjoyed it. It was a good voice, if a little uncertain on the choral pieces.

She poured her heart into her solo verse, and even Ben’s face lit with appreciation. He held her back afterwards, and though his praise was measured and moderate it was sincere; meaning far more than the words. They discussed ways to make it even better, which occupied several minutes, until Beckett’s phone buzzed.

“Sorry, I gotta take this,” she said, already halfway to swiping before she realised that it wasn’t the precinct but O’Leary. “Yes?”

“Where are you? I got your beer in already an’ it’s gettin’ warm.”

“There shortly,” Beckett said, and cut the call.

“You’ll be at the next rehearsal?”

“Sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Night,” Ben called after her as she swung briskly out of the door.

***

O’Leary settled himself down with his new pal, and behind a bland face and limpidly innocent eyes considered the chances of Beckett killing him three femto-seconds after she walked into the bar. He had, being a devoted fan of Derrick Storm – and an even more interested reader of Nikki Heat – recognised Richard Castle the moment he’d entered the church, but the man hadn’t given a surname and hadn’t evinced any knowledge of O’Leary. Therefore, Beckett had never mentioned him – and therefore, he could truthfully claim first acquaintance.

It still wouldn’t stop Beckett killing him, of course – or trying, in which she wouldn’t be successful. But O’Leary had sat through a lot of beers where Beckett had unwittingly mentioned Castle three sentences out of every four, and _he_ thought that she just needed some encouragement.

And tonight, serendipitously, _encouragement_ had walked into their choir. Now, wasn’t that just a heaven-sent sign? Anyways, he liked the man. No arrogance, no references to his theatre past, no attempts to play the star or show off. Just singing, with winces for his occasional mistakes, and a clear determination to do better. Nice guy. O’Leary crossed his sausage-sized fingers under the table, and then raised his hands to wave at Beckett, who had just come into the bar.

“Here’s our soloist now,” he said.

Castle turned his head – and choked on his beer.

Beckett walked up, stared at O’Leary’s new pal, and choked without any beer at all. “What the _hell_?!”


	2. Chapter 2

“ _You’re_ the soloist?”

“ _You_ were the new baritone?” they said in tandem.

“What are you doing following me to _my_ choir?”

“I wasn’t! I like singing and I wanted to find a Christmas choir. You had nothing to do with it.”

That seriously stung Beckett, who bit back in kind. “Isn’t it bad enough that you follow me around all the time at work without following me into choir? Find another choir.”

“Won’t. I like this one.”

“So you’re going to spoil the one thing I do outside of work just because you walked into it and like it?”

O’Leary watched his good idea melt into a disaster of immense proportions, and didn’t like it.

“Stop,” he boomed. Astonishingly, they did. Not at all astonishingly, they both turned glares upon O’Leary’s impervious self.

Beckett spoke first. “You knew it was Castle, didn’t you? You planned this! You double-dealing _rat_!”

“You did?” Castle squawked. “You didn’t bat an eyelash. I thought you were a nice guy, not someone who was going to get me shot at dawn!”

“No-one’s goin’ to get shot. An’ no-one’s goin’ to keep arguin’, neither. Both of you sit down an’ play nice.” O’Leary glared back, harder. “Now. I don’t know you, Rick, but I’ve heard a lot about you from Beckett here, an’ you sound like a good guy.” Castle choked. “An’ Beckett, I’ve known you since you were a rookie an’ I know you ain’t as dumb as you’re behavin’ right now. So both of you c’n just pretend you’ve never met before an’ chat nicely.”

The warring parties glared at each other, and then at O’Leary. _Don’t wanna_ trembled on their tongues. O’Leary produced a mountainous glare of his own, and their respective tongues stilled. Both of them found refuge in their beer. O’Leary sighed to himself, and pondered whether the magic of Christmas would overcome the sulking of his companions. It didn’t seem likely.

Silence continued, but, much to O’Leary’s surprise, after a moment or two he noticed that Beckett was sneaking peeks at Castle through her lashes, and he was casting brief, barely-there glances at her. Their awareness of each other was palpable, and after another couple of moments O’Leary was faintly surprised that the air was as cold as ever. There was surely a lot of heat going back and forward.

“You didn’t sing so badly tonight,” he directed at Beckett.

“Badly?” Castle ejaculated. “It was great!” He clamped his mouth shut, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Really?” Beckett asked, uncertainty tainting her voice.

“Sure,” he assured her. “You really can sing – why did you never tell me you could sing?”

“It’s not relevant to catching killers,” she snipped. “Singing won’t make them drop their guns.”

“You could be a siren,” Castle baited. “Lorelei. Luring in innocent” –

“Killers” –

“ _Men_ ,” he emphasised – “and seducing them into insanity.”

“And then drowning them,” she pointed out. “Right. So I’m a crazed serial killer myself? Flattering. Not.”

O’Leary made a softly chiding noise, which fell like a blow between the squabbling pair. “That wasn’t nice,” he rebuked Castle. “An’ you know it, so say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry,” Castle forced out in a very small voice.

“An’ you know he didn’t mean to be mean, so you accept it. Like you should’ve accepted the compliment rather’n startin’ a fight.”

“’kay,” Beckett managed, in a likewise small voice.

“Rick, it’s your round. Go get the beers. No arguin’,” he directed at Beckett. “We’re goin’ to have a nice evenin’ an’ all be pals.” He flicked a glance at Castle, out of earshot. “You been talkin’ about him all the time, so now we’re goin’ to turn you into friends. Nothin’ more,” he added at her fulminating glare, “’cause that’s not my problem.” He smirked. “Though you’ve been sneakin’ peeks all evenin’, so…anyways, be nice,” he finished, at her world-ending scowl.

Castle returned before Beckett could take stern measures against O’Leary, which was probably just as well since stern measures had never worked in the past and likely wouldn’t work now. Instead she grabbed her beer with a muttered _thank you_ and buried her face in the bottle.

O’Leary thought about conversation openers, but was abruptly forestalled by Castle.

“You knew exactly who I was, didn’t you?”

“Waall…yeah. Your picture’s on the back of all of your books, an’ you don’t look that different without all the PR lightin’ an’ make-up.”

“You read my books?” Castle said, diverted from his hostile interrogation by finding a fan.

“Sure do.”

Castle grinned. “Great. Always good to meet a reader.” He didn’t say _fan_. That would have been, um, arrogant, and for whatever reason it seemed like Colm was trying to help his non-existent romance with Beckett along. “But…if you knew me, why not say so?”

“You didn’t seem to want to be known, an’ if you wanna keep who you are on the down-low, that’s fine with me.” Beckett humphed, but at Colm’s glance didn’t open her mouth. Castle hadn’t known that _anyone_ could keep Beckett contained, but it seemed like this mountainous man had the secret. Maybe it was just sheer size – oh. He’d said he’d known Beckett since she was a rookie. Oooohhhhh – history!

“You’re another cop?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. So what was Beckett like as a rookie?” he asked, without letting discretion or common sense over-rule enthusiasm and curiosity.

“Uh?”

“You said you’d known Beckett since she was a rookie, so – what was she like?”

At that point Beckett recovered her voice. “Don’t you _dare_ , O’Leary!” she hissed. “Don’t tell him _anything_. It’ll all go in another book and I _don’t want it to_.”

There was a note in her voice that indicated more than simply her usual dislike of the whole Nikki Heat phenomenon. There was something…pain, perhaps; hurt, certainly. Castle had last heard that tone when she’d admitted to her father’s problems.

“Just like she is now,” Colm O’Leary drawled. “Small an’ scary.” 

Beckett, who had opened her mouth to unleash hell, shut it again.

“Fair enough,” Castle said. “But I wouldn’t say Beckett’s _small_.”

“Mebbe not to you, but you ain’t so tall yourself.”

“How big _are_ you?”

“Too big for his own good,” Beckett noted with a considerable degree of grumpiness.

“Naw. Too big for you to bully, butterfly.”

“Butterfly?” squeaked Castle in a falsetto that couldn’t have been achieved normally without either serious surgery or being Freddie Mercury. “ _Butter_ ” – he shut his mouth, fast.

“I’m going home,” Beckett said to O’Leary. “That was out of line.”

“Aw, Beckett. C’mon. I’m only teasin’ you.” O’Leary, whose size clearly made him brave, put a platter-sized paw on Beckett’s arm. “Don’t go. You ain’t finished your beer yet, an’ you haven’t bought your round.”

“You don’t deserve it. I didn’t expect you to go letting cats out of bags wholesale. If I had, I wouldn’t have stayed in the first place,” she said crossly.

“But he’s your pal,” O’Leary said, all wide-eyed naivety and disingenuity. Beckett growled in a way Castle had thought only applied to him, and the saucer-eyes grew to dinner-plate width, limpid with light-blue innocence.

“You’re supposed to be my pal, but all you’re doing is tattling. Stop it. I don’t want my whole life in a book.”

“Book?”

“O’Leary, I know you read _Naked Heat_.” Her mouth twisted at the words. “I _also_ know you know that it was based on me – and I told you _exactly_ what I thought of that. So why are you telling Castle all about me when you know I don’t want it all written about, huh?”

“’Cause he ain’t gonna write about it, is he?”

O’Leary fixed Castle with a hard stare. Castle gave him a hard stare back. “I write what _I_ want to write. Not what someone else tells me to write. Or not to write.”

“Too true,” Beckett muttered.

“Nikki already _has_ a backstory, and it’s not Beckett’s. She told me hers – all three or four sentences,” he added dryly, “months ago, long before _Naked Heat_ was done. So whatever you tell me, it’s not going to be consistent with Nikki except by sheer luck.”

“ _Bad_ luck,” Beckett muttered.

“And if it is, I don’t give a shiny _shit_ if you said don’t write it, because I will if that’s how my story comes.” His hard stare had turned to a hard glare.

“Waaalll, now. Someone took his bravery pills this mornin’.”

“The hell with that. _Nobody_ messes with my writing. I don’t care if you’re the super heavyweight champion of the world or God Himself, you don’t mess with my writing.” Castle hunched forward, wholly aggressive – and tiny against the huge mass of Colm O’Leary.

“Boy’s got balls,” O’Leary said conversationally to Beckett. “He’s not goin’ to let you push him around like you bully all the rest of ‘em. I like him. C’n I keep him?”

“No. Stick with Pete. God knows why he loves you, but he does.”

“Pete?”

“O’Leary’s partner.”

Castle wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to think that Beckett meant _NYPD_ partner. Colm O’Leary, the biggest man Castle had ever met in his whole entire life, was gay? Well, that was…just plain great, because it _also_ meant that Colm O’Leary, the biggest man Castle might have had to argue with in his whole entire life, wasn’t competition for Beckett. Which was a considerable relief, since Castle was quite keen on his life continuing with all four limbs and his head firmly attached to his body. Though if he upset Beckett and O’Leary took offence…his survival time would be measured in microseconds.

“But I want him. He writes books,” O’Leary pouted, an ice-shelf of a lower lip protruding.

“Nope.”

“He could put me in a book. I’d be famous.”

“I doubt it,” Beckett said cynically, “since you’ve spent an hour winding him up and annoying me.”

“Gotta see what he’s made of,” O’Leary said happily. “I don’t like people who don’t got a spine. An’ anyways, he c’n sing. I’ve been awful lonely all on my own in the bass. Now I got a pal.”

Castle’s flittering mind had wandered. “How big are you?” he asked again.

“Six-ten.”

“And wide?”

“Fifty four inches round the chest. Why?”

“Oh, I never know when something’s going to be useful,” he said idly.

“See, Beckett. I could be a _character_.”

“Oh, God. Isn’t it bad enough that I have to listen to you playing Mommy every week, _and_ you talking all about Christmas from the moment Thanksgiving’s over? Why don’t you just play Christmas tree for a while? I’ll even string the lights around you if it means you stop talking about it.”

“Mean. Just ‘cause you never met a celebration you liked, don’t mean the rest of us can’t have fun.”

“You can have all the fun you like, just stop trying to drag me into it.” Beckett sat back in her chair, tipped her beer into her mouth, and continued to improve her imitation of a small, black, thundercloud.

“Okay,” O’Leary said mildly, and turned to Castle. “She’ll stop sulkin’ in a bit.” Beckett ignored that, with a side order of extra disdain. “Guess she’s not happy that I invited you along, but I like you. An’ you ain’t a tenor, so that’s a bonus.”

Castle flicked a glance sideways at the toxic lifeform formerly known as Kate Beckett. “What’s really up with her?” he murmured. “She hasn’t been this unpleasant for months.”

“Christmas,” O’Leary murmured back, just as quietly. “She really don’t like Christmas.”

“So why’s she in the choir?”

“Loves singin’. Think she gets some comfort outta the carols an’ hymns, but Lord knows she don’t get any from the season. Anyways, she’s in the choir all the time, not just at Christmas.”

“It’s not my fault if she doesn’t like Christmas.”

“Naw…but… her mom’s awful close to the front of her mind this time of year, an’…well, you raked it all up again, so…”

Castle winced. The O’Leary mountain clearly knew the whole disastrous story of the summer – but had still welcomed him as a friend. Okay, that was, um, weird. 

“Still?” he said softly. “I knew she got angry” – there was the understatement of the millennium, from O’Leary’s face – “when I…” he trailed off: _tried to help_ might be true, but it had backfired so appallingly he couldn’t finish the sentence. “In the summer.”

“Yeah. Well. Not now.”

Which implied _later_.

While they’d been talking, Beckett had completed her transformation into a black cloud of displeased misery, and also finished her beer.

“I’m going home,” she said bluntly, stood, and left without farewell. The atmosphere instantly lightened by a factor of several full summer suns, though both men looked at the wake of her departure with identically concerned expressions.

“That didn’t go like I wanted it to,” O’Leary said heavily. 

Castle raised eyebrows at him. “What, you didn’t think she’d try to shoot me on sight? It sounds like you’ve been friends a long time, so surely you knew this was a bad idea.”

“’Cause we’ve been pals a long time, I thought it was a _good_ idea.”

“Oh?” Castle enquired, delicately probing.

O’Leary’s huge shoulders shifted. “She could use another friend. Choir’s the only place she goes, seems like. Me an’ that mini-ME Parrish, we think she should get out more.”

Castle pulled at his beer, and thought before speaking. “So what’s that got to do with me?”

O’Leary regarded him through sharp, light eyes which belied his bucolic drawl. “Waaalllll,” he stretched out, “from what I been hearin’, you been tryin’ to get Beckett out. Mebbe out of her pants, too, but out. An’ unlike her, I do believe you turnin’ up at this choir was an accident, ‘cause otherwise you’d’a known she could sing, an’ you didn’t. So you actually got somethin’ in common that ain’t murder, which is one step better than ev’ryone else she knows.”

“Except you,” Castle pointed out tartly. 

“Yeah, but we can’t tie up our schedules that easy an’ I got a life of my own.” He grinned. “You chose to spend your life followin’ her around, an’ I didn’t. If I’d wanted that, we’d mebbe have been partners again.”

“You didn’t want to be partners with her?” Castle squeaked.

“Oh, sure I did – right up till I remembered she ain’t comfortable to be around. An’ it was clear from the start she was goin’ places in a hurry, ‘cause she couldn’t stop in case she remembered about her mom an’ it all crashed down around her ears. An’ I wanted the occasional hour off. She’s” – he paused for thought – “intense. An’ that’s uncomfy, iffen you want a break. She don’t take breaks. I think,” he said ominously, “as she dreams about her homicides.”

Castle stared.

“Now, don’t you think I don’t like her. I do. She’s the best cop I’ve ever seen or heard of, an’ the best I worked with. She helped me out a whole damn lot in ways you don’t get to know about till we know you a _lot_ better, an’ there ain’t _nobody_ I’d rather have on a case – but permanent partners? Naw. I wanna go home at night, an’ switch off. She’d be callin’ at midnight with some new thought or lead, an’ wakin’ me up. I need my beauty sleep.”

Castle coloured up. _He_ did that, too, though only to Beckett, who reciprocated thoroughly.

“See, you don’t seem to mind that.”

Castle blushed more brightly.

“Anyways, as if she wasn’t bad enough for that most of the time, she’s worse now. Ain’t you noticed yet?”

Castle hadn’t. He’d been – oh, admit it, Rick – so relieved that she’d started calling him to toss around theories and leads, after the disastrous attempt to _help_ , that he’d assumed the ramping up in frequency had just meant that Beckett was more comfortable with him; more inclined to treat him like a partner.

Sounded as if it was more like she was treating him like a displacement mechanism.

O’Leary’s light eyes – somewhere in the last two hours, Castle’s brain had refiled O’Leary from Colm, bass singer, to O’Leary, NYPD detective – watched him sharply.

“You know she don’t call those two stooges she says are her team?”

“They are her team.”

“Sure, because they don’t argue with her. C’n you imagine either of them tellin’ her to stop, or makin’ it stick?”

“No…”

“An’ I don’t think her Captain does too much – too keen on the solve rate to stop her.”

Castle shrugged. He didn’t discuss Beckett with Roy Montgomery, whose attitude was just a little too curious for Castle’s taste – and continued good health, should Beckett discover any discussions.

“I do hear as you argue with her,” O’Leary trailed.

“I don’t tell her what to do or when to stop,” Castle noted. 

“You don’t got the right. Yet.”

Castle’s mouth fell open, and he boggled unattractively. “Uh?”

O’Leary sighed, and the beer mats flew six inches. “Ain’t you followin’? The last guy she called at midnight was me.”

“Oh. Urk.”

O’Leary’s pained expression suggested that he thought Castle could do rather better than _urk_. “I c’n tell her. Don’t mean she listens, but she don’t shoot me. Usually,” he added with a wide grin. “So, iffen she’s callin’ you at all hours, likely some time you c’n try ‘n’ tell her to stop. Likely she won’t listen, but likely she won’t shoot you.”

“Really?” Castle said sceptically. “I’m glad _you_ think so. I’ll be sure to tell you that you were wrong from my ICU bed. Or haunt you.”

O’Leary guffawed.

“Anyway, why are you telling _me_ all this? Beckett barely spoke to me until the end of September, and she wasn’t exactly pleased to see me this evening, so I think you might have got the wrong end of the stick about what she thinks of me.” He heaved a breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“I told you already, Beckett talks about you. A lot.”

“Yeah, right. Creative ways to rip out my guts, wait for me to die painfully, and then untraceably dispose of the body.”

O’Leary clapped slowly. “Anyone’d think you’re a writer, with that imagination,” he drawled. “But no. Iffen that was it, I wouldn’t have invited you for a drink. I was _hopin’_ that iffen you had a nice friendly beer then you might get to be a bit better pals. Seein’ as you been makin’ eyes at her all evenin’ when she wasn’t lookin’ an’ _she_ been sneakin’ peeks at you.”

Castle made an indeterminate noise and turned beet red.

“ _So_ ,” O’Leary said in tones of stone, “I think there’s more to it than Beckett wantin’ to kill you, though if you’re as dumb to her as she is to you an’ you both were tonight, I hafta wonder.” He paused, and assessed Castle again. “But iffen she hated you, she wouldn’t talk about you.”

Castle took another long drink of his beer, and considered, during which time O’Leary, feeling with cause that he’d said far more than he’d wanted to and surely far more than Beckett would have appreciated, didn’t interrupt his thoughts.

Eventually he spoke. “You’re saying that she wouldn’t mind being better friends,” he said temperately, though his thoughts had run some way ahead of the words.

“Yeah. An’ now I’ve had a chance to size you up, I like you. An’ I like your singin’, so how’s about stayin’ around the choir an’ stayin’ around Beckett? She’s goin’ to need a friend through Christmas, an’ you c’n be it.”

Castle sighed. “God knows why, after this evening, but I think I like you too. And you can sing – just don’t ever meet my mother, or you’ll be roped into some off-off-off-off Broadway production faster than you can blink.”

“An’ c’n I be a character?” O’Leary wheedled.

“Only if you fit the story,” Castle said firmly.

“Awww, I don’t fit nowhere. I’m too big.”

“We’ll see.”

After that there was more beer and no more difficult discussion, but by the end of the evening the two men were, a little tentatively, friends.


	3. Chapter 3

Beckett had left the bar, conscious that she hadn’t behaved well, but deeply unhappy that Castle had followed her to choir. Couldn’t she just have _one_ place on her own?

A little voice told her that she was being silly. Castle hadn’t followed her, because he’d been shocked cold that she was a singer – and shocked right into the glacial epoch when he found that she was the soloist. He’d even been genuinely impressed, and he must have heard some world-class singers in his time. He’d had a really good voice, she mused. Smooth, rich, and beautifully blended with O’Leary’s bone-breaking bass.

She just hated the season, and choir was the only place that soothed her shredded soul; singing herself into some semblance of serenity before she had to face the streets and sidewalks full of joyfully happy people, joyfully and happily celebrating the miracle of the season.

She, by contrast, was mourning the tragedy of death. Every gleaming bauble or twinkling star was a sharp-edged reflection of the shattering of their lives; every whiff of spruce and cold winter air carried the taint of that final chill and the cold earth of a grave.

Maybe if it had only been the murder…but then her father had fallen headfirst into whiskey, and for five years Christmas had simply been another nerve-shreddingly awful experience, and now, therapy, Al-Anon, AA, and all the efforts she and her father had made to repair their relationship so that today she could barely see the mending – she still couldn’t bear the memories and the scars.

Singing, where she could lose herself in the beauty of the traditional music, was her respite and her peace. And O’Leary’s interference had spoiled her evening and taken it all away, and now she was just as knotted up as she’d been before choir began. She huffed out an angry breath, and poured herself a glass of wine. Maybe it wasn’t the best coping mechanism, but she wanted it. She wanted chocolate more, but she hadn’t any of that.

As the soft red slipped slowly down her throat, Beckett recovered some calm and, though she was still deeply unhappy about O’Leary hijacking the post-choir peacefulness, admitted to herself that she hadn’t exactly helped matters along. Another few, slow, easy sips, and quite some time, later, she admitted that she’d taken offence where none had been deliberately intended, which meant that she probably owed both of the men an apology. It still took her the rest of the evening and the rest of the wine to manage to tap out a pair of conciliatory texts, blaming a not-imaginary headache, and she didn’t feel any better when she had.

***

Castle went home with a touch of wooziness around his higher neural functions, which didn’t show in his walk or speech. He was more than a little confused by O’Leary, who was a walking, talking mountain of contradictions; and more than a little irritated by Beckett, who was simply complicated. He took a soothing shower before bed, in which he sang through the choral numbers as best he could, and was astonished to find a short text from Beckett adorning his phone when he emerged. 

_Didn’t mean to snap at you. Sorry. Headache. See you tomorrow? B._

The text was the more astonishing for failing to mention work, murder, or leads in any way whatsoever. He couldn’t remember ever receiving any form of communication from Beckett that didn’t involve her work. He certainly couldn’t remember anything that bore even the most tangential relationship to an apology. Wow. If that was the effect of adding the titanic O’Leary to the mix, Castle would practically invite the man to live in his loft, even if he was a haystack-sized bundle of contradictory confusion.

Castle fell asleep almost looking forward to the morning.

In the morning, however, his over-consumption of beer made itself manifest in a dull headache and a slight uncertainty in his stomach, as a result of which he was sluggish to wake, and slower to have a light breakfast, with several more cups of coffee than he would normally drink. By the time he prised himself away from the coffee cup, it was also rather later than he would normally go to the precinct to see if anything interesting was happening, and his usual enthusiasm for the day was sadly lacking.

He finally decided that the bullpen would distract him from his light hangover, and betook himself there, hoping for a nice interesting murder to occupy his thoughts.

***

Beckett looked up at the clunk of a coffee cup in front of her, and managed a slightly weary smile. Her morning had featured far too much detailed and tedious cross-matching, which had yet to produce a single useful lead; and had not been improved by the driving sleet-turning-to-ice-needles which had assaulted her on her way in to work. She had dried off – she’d only walked twenty yards, for God’s sake, from her parking space – but somehow she still felt cold. She never felt properly warm in winter, no matter how thick her sweater or coat.

She reached for the coffee, and slugged half of the still-scalding liquid back, then smiled up at Castle.

“Thanks.” She ran a gaze over him. “O’Leary’s got the hardest head in creation,” she observed, and left it at that.

“Anything interesting?”

“No. Wanna cross-match?”

“No.”

Beckett looked at her lists and sighed. More coffee vanished down her throat, and more sighs rose up from it. So progressed the day until lunchtime, by which time she’d drunk two more coffees, made and supplied by Castle (who had downed plenty of coffee of his own), and acquired a slump-shouldered posture that argued the need for a bullpen chiropractor.

“Lunch?” she asked dully. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that her conscience was prodding her into having.

“Yeah. Remy’s?” Castle replied equally dully.

“Sure. I don’t have to think about my order there.”

“Same.”

They plodded out, and trudged the short distance to Remy’s in the sleet.

Remy’s was warm, bright – and had acquired some Christmas décor, which Beckett monumentally failed to appreciate. She ignored it with prejudice by concentrating on the menu, although she knew it by heart. They gave their usual orders to the server, and relapsed into silence until their drinks arrived.

“I didn’t know you sang,” she said, after a large gulp, which gulp was _mostly_ occasioned by a drink of strawberry milkshake. It sounded like an extension of an olive branch.

“Not for a while,” Castle said tentatively. “But now Alexis is older, I can be out in the evenings without a problem. She’ll make sure Mother doesn’t do anything too dreadful,” he added sardonically.

“I didn’t mean to be, er… well, last night.” Castle, helpfully, said nothing, encouragingly. “I was…well, anyway, it’s something that _isn’t_ about the precinct, and then…” She trailed off. Any conclusion to that sentence was going to be even more unhelpful than starting it had been.

“It really was an accident,” Castle offered. “I didn’t know it was you till you came into the bar.”

“Yeah. Well. I didn’t get my head round that till later.” She took another gulp of milkshake. “Why _did_ you want to find a choir?”

“I just…” He coloured. “I like singing, okay? I hadn’t done any for a while and I suddenly thought it would be good to go back to it. And I like the Christmas songs, and mostly I know them, and it was an easy route back in. So I looked around” – he slid by the attempts to find a precinct choir – “and found that one.”

“Oh,” Beckett said, at which point their food arrived.

Two mouthfuls in, Castle returned to the point. “Where did you learn to sing?”

“High school. Mom” – she tried to cover her wince, but Castle noticed it – “got me lessons. I carried on at university, and then I found the choir. Well, O’Leary found it, and I tagged along.”

“He’s amazing,” Castle said. It wasn’t obviously unconditional approval.

“He…okay, he gets a little unnecessarily overprotective.” She suddenly grinned. “You should recognise that. You do it with your daughter all the time. At least I can tell O’Leary to back off, not that he ever listens. Come to think of it, that’s another thing you’ve got in common. Are you sure you’re not twins?”

“That’s a theory that’s _almost_ worthy of me,” Castle grinned back, “but no, I’m pretty sure if I were twins my mother would have blamed me for it for the last forty years or so.”

Beckett’s grin mutated to a softer smile. “You still look after her, though.”

“Yeah. Well.” He wriggled uncomfortably. “When’s the next choir rehearsal?”

“Tomorrow. Three times a week in December. Didn’t you ask?”

“Yes, but I can’t be bothered to get my phone out and you always remember everything.”

“I’m not a memo pad!”

“Nope. But what I really meant was are you okay with me coming, and since you told me it was tomorrow, I guess you are.”

“Only because we need another voice in the bass section,” she snipped.

Castle smiled sweetly. “I knew you liked my singing.”

“At least you’re not a tenor.”

“At least you’re not a pure soprano.”

The conversation rapidly degenerated into a companionable bitching session about the theatrical tendencies and attitudes of sopranos and tenors, almost none of which was justified by experience or acquaintance of anyone in the choir, but all of which reflected previous knowledge in other choirs – or in Castle’s case, years of theatre.

It wasn’t until they got back to the precinct, very comfortably in charity with each other and completely over the previous night’s snapping, that Castle realised that he’d never gotten anywhere near finding out _why_ Beckett wanted something to do outside the precinct – from Beckett. O’Leary had been moderately informative. With remarkable tact, he didn’t ask, which resulted in a pleasant afternoon. Even the remnants of his hangover had faded over lunch. He was quite happy when he ambled home.

***

Beckett had been working late. This wasn’t unusual at this time of year: her apartment was cold and quiet – a chill of the soul, a silence of discomfort – and the bullpen, however tastelessly full of ghastly decoration, was _also_ full of a noisy, crude camaraderie which kept the worst of her demons at bay. Best to stay there, away from the memories, and carry out a useful function. It was only until mid-January, after all. Only a few weeks, barely a month. She could do that.

She had done so for the last ten years, after all.

Deep in concentration, time flew by, and when she needed to bounce ideas around, she didn’t hesitate to call Castle. She didn’t realise – nor would she have cared – that it was past midnight. She did notice that when the call was over, she’d cleared her head and felt less stressed; so much so that she could go home and sleep.

***

A day and a half later, Castle found himself alongside Beckett as they entered the church, in time for rehearsal. He hadn’t actually been at the precinct that day, since it had been clear from Beckett’s midnight call the previous night (or possibly that morning: focusing on a clock hadn’t been his priority) that while she wanted to bounce around theories and leads (yes, in the middle of the night: chalk one up to the man-mountain), following them up would simply involve a vast quantity of tedious paper pushing and data analysis, which was…well, boring. So he’d simply said he’d meet her a few minutes before they’d need to leave for choir, and done so.

Informed by O’Leary’s disingenuous conversation, he’d _observed_ as he came in this evening, and he’d noted tight lines across her brow, strain in her eyes, and shadows beneath her lashes. Taken with the late-night phone call, Castle concluded that O’Leary had the right of it, and as they entered and found Colossus-Colm already there, raking a fast, discreet glance over Beckett and replacing it with a happy, bucolic smile before she noticed, he was pretty sure that O’Leary was confirming his suspicions.

Still, it was good to be singing again, it was good to be on good terms with Beckett, and _tonight_ he would moderate his beer consumption, being merely a yacht beside the super-tanker of the other man.

His singing felt better tonight, and Beckett’s voice was as velvety-gorgeous as the first time. It stroked him all over, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose…in tandem with less innocent parts of him. Not appropriate for a church, or a choir. He calmed himself down, and joined exactly on the note.

As they had after the first choir rehearsal that Castle had attended, the next stop was the same bar, for throat-soothing beers. Unlike the previous time, the three of them went together, and while Beckett insisted on getting the first round of drinks, the men found a space sufficient for one giant, one broad man, and one pair of extra-long legs.

“That went well,” O’Leary said, looking approvingly at Castle. “You still need to learn _Born A King_ better, though.”

“Yeah,” Castle muttered – and then had a brilliant idea, which he managed to keep off his face. Extra rehearsals. _Private_ rehearsals…with Beckett. Yes. Oh, _yes_. “I’ve only known about it for a few days, though. At least I know the other songs.”

“YouTube recordings?” Beckett offered up.

“Did that, as soon as Ben told me the repertoire. But that’s not the same as singing it yourself. At least I can sight read, and” – he grinned – “I can always follow O’Leary here.”

“Guess so,” the mountain drawled. “Anyways, I’m the main man.”

“The loudest,” Beckett snipped. “Every time you start, my bones rattle.”

“Just call me Terfel,” O’Leary riposted.

“I heard him once,” Castle intervened. “He was superb.”

“You did?” the other two squawked in unison.

“Yeah. It was wonderful – though I can only cope with one opera every five years. I really don’t like that operatic soprano style – or the dying arias repeated six times as they obviously regenerate like some alien lifeform until Sigourney Weaver finally kills them off…” he trailed off at the identical glares of total disgust.

“I didn’t believe you,” O’Leary said wonderingly to Beckett. “Is he always like this?”

“Yep. Pity me.”

“Naw. I haven’t forgotten you callin’ me at midnight five days in a row. You don’t get no pity.”

“The case was hot.”

“Yeah, but I was busy.”

Beckett smirked. “No, you weren’t. You were hanging Christmas decorations – you said so. And it wasn’t midnight, it was mid-evening.”

O’Leary pouted, and grumped. “I was off-shift. An’ so should you’ve been.”

“The case was hot.”

He raised eyebrows at her. “Naw, your temper was hot. You’d gotten rattled by some dumbass sayin’ you’d missed somethin’ when you hadn’t, an’ you spent a week provin’ it wasn’t true. An’ disturbin’ me.”

Beckett grumbled into her beer bottle as O’Leary smirked contentedly at the top of her head.

“Anyway,” she humphed, “you weren’t doing anything important.”

“Christmas decorations are very important. Gotta have the right co-ordinated décor, or it don’t look good. It was gold an’ red that year,” he mused. “I liked that one, but Pete likes blue, so this year it’s goin’ to be blue an’ silver.”

“Mine’s pretty eclectic,” Castle said, “but that’s because I’ve got a ton of stuff on the tree that Alexis made at school, or that I made for her.”

Beckett blinked. “I’d have thought that you’d have it all done by some professional, and be totally co-ordinated.”

“Nope. Totally over the top, yeah. I love Christmas,” he said happily, “and the more decorations and everything I can fit in, the better.” Not entirely innocently, he smiled at Beckett. “What do you do?”

“Tree,” she said baldly. There was a brief silence.

“You mean that li’l plastic thin’ on your table?” O’Leary said, with meaning. “No lights, nothin’?”

“It’s got lights.”

“Them li’l white glows on the end of each stick? That’s not lights, that’s barely a candle. An’ you don’t have a single other decoration anywhere.”

“I go to my dad’s on Christmas Day to have a meal together. I don’t need decorations, ‘cause he’s got all of them.”

O’Leary harrumphed, like a gigantic elephant. “Yeah, right. An’ that’s why you’re on the Christmas morning shift too?”

“It lets the guys with kids have Christmas morning with them, so they can see them open their presents. Dad and I don’t need to do that.”

It sounded so very reasonable, so very unselfish…and so very convenient. From the look splattered across O’Leary’s face, he didn’t believe a word of it. From the glare Beckett was giving O’Leary, she knew it. Castle stayed absolutely silent and didn’t interpose so much as a hair between them in case it should spontaneously combust. It seemed a good moment to put another round on the table.

Finally O’Leary dropped his scowl and broke the stalemate. “I don’t believe you, but I don’t wanna have that fight again. I think you’re wrong, an’ I think you need to get over usin’ work to blot out the memories, but you ain’t done it for me askin’ these last few years an’ I guess you won’t start now.”

“I’m happy with _my_ way of doing Christmas, just like you’re happy with yours. So leave it. I come to choir, don’t I?”

“True. An’ what else do you do that makes you happy?”

“Catching killers,” she said sardonically. “That makes me happy.”

“You torture me,” Castle said lightly. “That makes you happy.” 

O’Leary guffawed, and even Beckett grinned, albeit a little off-centre. “It does,” she said. “Just what I need to get going in the morning: a little light blood-eagling followed by some drawing and quartering. It’s even better than coffee.”

“I think I’ll keep coming by after ten – with coffee,” Castle said with exaggerated terror. “I don’t wanna be dead.”

“Oh, as long as the coffee keeps coming you won’t be dead.”

“Good to know.”

“Yeah,” O’Leary chimed in. “I’d hate to hafta arrest you, Beckett. It’d ruin my day, an’ that solo’d go to that Charmaine girl in the sopranos.”

“I’m in the sopranos, O’Leary!”

“Yeah, but not like her. Ev’ry time I hear her my retinas cringe.”

“Huh?”

“Well, iffen I wore glasses they’d shatter…”

“I didn’t notice that,” Castle put in.

“Ben had a word and asked her to blend a bit more.”

“Really? I thought he’d doped her water bottle,” O’Leary snickered.

“Mean. At least she’s in tune. Everyone in this choir’s in tune.”

“We make a nice noise,” O’Leary agreed.

“Anyway, I’m out,” Beckett said. “Two beers is my limit, and this one’s done. See you tomorrow, Castle. Friday, Bigfoot.” She swung out before O’Leary’s wail could reach her.

“Bigfoot? That go with _butterfly_?” Castle asked.

“Yeah. Her revenge. Hmph.”

“Time I went home. See you Friday?”

“Yep.”

Castle’s reasons for going home, rather than delicately grilling O’Leary, owed much to the need to think through a strategy for talking Beckett into private rehearsals, and a little more to an insistent small voice telling him that he could improve her view of this Christmas-tide. If he went home, too, he wouldn’t go to the precinct, where he was perfectly certain he would find Beckett, bent over her desk with only one small lamp to light her way in the dark. Her way…into the dark hole of intense work, covering the deeper hole of her loss and her father’s fall. He couldn’t bear to watch it, and he didn’t – yet, it had to be _yet_ – have any right to try to stop her, or even to ask. He’d lost that chance six months earlier.

His natural optimism reared up. Singing…was a way in. Therefore, extra rehearsals with Beckett had to be the best plan. He simply had to work out how.

He bounced home, considering various ridiculously complicated plans, all of which fell on the simple hurdles of Beckett’s unbounded cynicism and investigative ability: either or both of which would mean that she saw through them – or interrogated him into quivering incoherence – immediately.

A pleasant dinner, which his mother’s absence improved (he got to drink some of his own wine for a change), he repaired to his study, Nikki Two, and some general – and more sensible – thinking. Gradually, under the soothing influence of the wine, he evolved a much simpler plan.

Ask Beckett if he could practice with her.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, as Castle drank his orange juice – vitamin C, and all that – and considerably more coffee, had some cereal for his digestive health and a Danish for his emotional well-being, he’d also been struck with a refinement to his bald plan. If Beckett were to be calling him at all hours of the night, then he’d use that to pry extra rehearsals out of her.

He sauntered off to the precinct content in body and mind; right up till he put Beckett’s coffee in front of her and realised just how exhausted she was. She might have been wearing different clothes, but since he knew she had a spare set in her locker, that proved nothing about whether she’d gone home or not. She hadn’t called him, but that proved nothing either: it simply meant that she hadn’t needed or wanted to bounce theory around. Alternatively, she hadn’t wanted to wake him, but he doubted that _that_ particular consideration had ever entered her head. It wouldn’t have entered his.

“Good morning,” he carolled.

“Hey.” She looked up, smiled, saw the coffee and fell upon it like a toddler on presents on Christmas morning. Half the cupful disappeared without a breath being taken. Castle looked around and found a much busier murder board; most of which hadn’t been there when he’d wandered in to collect Beckett for choir the previous evening. He didn’t comment, being fond of living.

***

Beckett had gone home, though not for very long. She’d been caught up in a massive analytical exercise, not accidentally, and had simply kept going, also not accidentally. It had required all her concentration, and why stop when she was in the groove? So she hadn’t. She’d finished at a time best not remembered, caught a catnap at home, showered and changed. No problem. She could keep that up for weeks – she _had_ , in previous years, kept it up for weeks.

Her brief catnap and shower meant that she didn’t have to think that her main room was bleakly undecorated and joyless. She’d never cared in previous years and she didn’t care now, she told herself. But on the way to the precinct, she noticed the decorations in the store windows and on the sidewalk lampposts, and a tiny tooth of envy chewed into her, almost unnoticed. It didn’t improve her view of the tasteless tat that passed for Christmas decorations in the precinct, and her dislike of those covered the nudge of conscience that told her, had she listened, that her excuse that all the decorations were at her father’s was just that: an excuse.

She dived into the day’s work and ignored any little nibbles of any idea that she might buy a couple of tasteful decorations.

When Castle arrived, Beckett was more than ready for the coffee he brought, and slugged it back without a care for her throat.

“Thanks,” she said, when the caffeine had hit her brain. “I really needed that.” She smiled, and Castle’s lips quirked upwards at her in answer. Her smile – she swore she could feel it – changed: a touch softer, a little warmer. That hadn’t happened before… before he came to choir. She might not have said much, but she’d been able to pick out his voice the second time. Not that she’d been listening for him. Of course not. 

She hadn’t needed to. Sure, he’d blended, but just as she’d be able to pick his voice out of the bullpen blindfolded, she could hear it in the choir: smooth, warm, and mellow. His voice promised comfort and joy. She could use some of both of those things.

She didn’t mention a single word of her thoughts all day, and when Castle departed, she stayed on, head down.

Some hours later, she sat on her desk, staring at the murder board, swinging her feet and tapping her fingers. There was something there: something that she just wasn’t quite seeing… She swiped on her phone and tapped Castle’s number.

“H…eyyyyy,” yawned Castle, who, from the sound of it, had been close to asleep – oh. Ooops.

“Sorry,” Beckett said. “I didn’t realise the time.”

“Urhhh… Beckett, it’s two in the morning! What are you doing?”

“I had a… there’s _something_ but I can’t quite see it so I wanted to toss it around. I didn’t realise it was so late,” she added sheepishly.

“I’m awake now, so what is it?”

Beckett outlined the problem. Castle, woken or not, began to play, and in a very few moments was fully on form.

Twenty-five minutes later they ran out of theorising and Castle yawned again.

“I should go,” Beckett said. “Let you go back to sleep.”

“I’d sleep much better if you were here,” Castle flirted, “but most unfairly you won’t come here.”

“Nope,” she shut down.

“So I want something else for being woken at two in the morning.”

“What?” Beckett suspected his motives. That was not news. Beckett _always_ suspected Castle’s motives, and was usually right to do so. She didn’t feel the slightest smidge guilty about her suspiciousness.

“I wanna practice” – he yawned again – “the cantata – _Born A King_. Will you practice with me?”

“What?”

“Pra- _ah_ -ctice with me?”

A whisper of guilt about waking him twinged her conscience. “Okay. Good night.”

“Till tomorrow, Beckett.”

She didn’t leave for another hour, but that didn’t worry her at all.

Three hours of sleep later, Beckett scalded her skin into wakefulness in the shower, grabbed a pint of strong coffee while she dressed and did her make-up, and serenely sailed into the bullpen in advance of the others.

Serenity fell apart as she remembered her promise to help Castle rehearse. How had she been conned into that? Just because he’d unfairly and unreasonably yawned and been tired and she’d thought how adorable he’d look all rumpled and tousled and sleepy-cute – he’d snookered her into agreeing.

And he would _not_ be adorable, rumpled, tousled, or sleepy-cute. Just _not_. Which denial didn’t stop a vision of a potentially sleepy-cute Castle crossing her mind, from where it was promptly and firmly evicted. When it tried to creep back, it was evicted with violence, and slunk away, into a dark corner where it skulked until it should have another chance to sneak back in. By way of flank attack, a tendril of curiosity wondered what Castle wore – or didn’t wear – to bed. Beckett’s mental secateurs chopped it off at the root, and threw it on a convenient bonfire, started by her fury at her ill-disciplined thoughts.

She flomped down at her desk, glared viciously at the murder board, and started her day. Some time later, she discovered that Castle had arrived, that he had placed coffee in front of her, and that the coffee had been drunk, each of which had occurred without her noticing anything. The consumption of the coffee seemed a touch unfair, since she normally savoured the coffee Castle brought her, and today she hadn’t noticed it.

“Are you okay?” Castle asked, at her annoyed humph.

“My coffee is gone, and I didn’t notice,” she sulked. “How did I not notice?”

“Because you haven’t raised your eyes for the last two hours,” Castle said patiently, “and I have to say that although I’ve reached several new high scores on various games, it’s not terribly interesting watching your hair move.”

Beckett straightened up and creaked alarmingly.

“I could massage out those aches,” Castle flirted.

“No, thank you.”

“You won’t be able to sing tonight if you’re all hunched over. Your breathing won’t be deep and crisp and even.”

“Since I’m not singing Good King Wenceslas” –

“We are” –

“No, the _men_ are. How did you not notice that?” She smirked.

“Whatever. You can’t sing your solo if you can’t breathe properly.”

“I can breathe just fine.” She stood up, stretched, and took a couple of deep breaths, to prove it. “Eyes up _here_!” she snapped, on observing Castle’s gaze floating rather below her collarbones. 

“But it’s such a nice view,” he oozed. “I love that colour of sweater. It goes so nicely with your eyes.”

Beckett was perfectly certain that he wasn’t concentrating on subtle shades of deep green wool. Unfortunately, she also wasn’t on top form to have an undoubtedly sub-text laden discussion about his misbehaviour either. She sat back down and stared at her papers.

“Ugh,” she emitted.

“What are you trying to do?”

“Find a lead,” Beckett snipped, and then looked up. “Sorry. It’s in here somewhere, I just can’t see it.”

“So how do you know it’s in there?”

“I found it already. I just lost it again.”

“Didn’t you mark it? You always mark things you want to find again.”

She stared at him. “I do?”

“Yep. You don’t even realise it, but you do. So look for your mark. Or I could, while you get yourself more coffee.”

“You make better coffee,” Beckett said, without her brain applying any filter to the thought. She recovered herself. “As long as you don’t put any spices or adulterants into it – just vanilla.”

“I would never adulterate your coffee,” Castle said, and then grinned wickedly. “But if you’d like to experience some other forms of adultery” –

“What?”

“ – such as doing your taxes, or grocery shopping, or buying life insurance” –

“That is _not_ what adultery means,” Beckett growled.

“It isn’t?” Castle replied innocently. “I’m distraught. I’ve been misusing a word! Horrors! You’d better tell me what it does mean.”

“Look up a dictionary.”

“Aw, that’s not nice.”

“I’m not taking that bait.”

Castle pouted, which was absolutely definitely not ridiculously adorable. Beckett glared back down at her papers.

“Will you be nice to me if I get you some coffee?”

“Only if it isn’t adulterated.”

Castle pouted again, which had no more effect than the first one – outwardly. Inwardly Beckett’s common sense was fighting a rearguard action against her tiredness-induced desire to be cossetted. Some cossetting might improve the ghastliness of Christmas-time.

“I guess that’ll have to do,” he assented. “Making you coffee is better than torture.”

“We could test that empirically.”

“No, thanks,” Castle rushed out, and scuttled for the break room before she could elaborate.

Castle used the gurgling pause while the coffee machine brewed to consider Beckett’s state. Tired, for sure. Snarky, equally for sure. Maybe right now wasn’t the best time to remind her about private rehearsals. He’d save that for after choir, which would have the happy effect of preventing her working till the small hours tonight.

While he’d been thinking, the coffee had finished brewing. He added another for himself, and took them both back out to Beckett’s desk, where she was riffling through the sheets of paper and, just as he arrived, whooped in triumph. 

“Here it is!” she said. “I _had_ marked it.”

Castle carefully didn’t ask _when_ she had marked it. “Great,” he congratulated. “So…?”

“So, now I have a direct link, _so_ now I get to haul them in and interrogate.” She smiled sharply. “Fun on Fridays.”

Castle grinned back. “Yep. Happy days.”

The prospect of a nice, hostile interrogation fired up Beckett’s blood (though it might also have been the extra caffeine), and the remains of the morning passed in good order, with evidence stacking up to form a cage around the unlucky suspect.

Said unlucky suspect arrived in the company of two tall, burly officers early in the afternoon, but made the rookie mistake of denying everything. As Beckett tied him up in his own lies, he became more and more panicked, and finally, after rather longer than anyone would have liked, caved in, with a side order of tearful hysteria.

“Just in time,” she said, as he was taken to the cells. “I’ll write it up, and then I can go.” She looked up. “You’d better not wait.”

“I’ve got time, but if it gets close I’ll go on ahead.”

“Yeah. There are only the two of you. There are plenty of sopranos.”

“Are you saying you’d miss me?”

“No.”

“I’m wounded.” He looked pathetically at her. “You wouldn’t miss me?”

Beckett blatantly thought about it, as Castle’s gaze grew more theatrically despondent by the second. “Yes,” she eventually said. He bounced back to happiness. “I’d miss the coffee.” And back to theatrical despondency.

“Only the coffee?” he pouted. “Not my wit, charm, and personality? My ruggedly handsome profile and sculpted body?”

“Nope. If I want sculpted bodies I can go down to Ladies’ Night at the strip joints, and I can find charming personalities everywhere I look. We arrest dozens of psychopaths every month.”

“I’m not a psychopath!”

“I didn’t say you were. I said that I could find charming personalities in among all the psychopaths we arrest.”

“You implied it.”

“If you choose to take that implication – which I didn’t say – that’s up to you. Now let me get on with this so I have half a chance of making it to rehearsal on time.”

Castle shut up, and Beckett devoted all her concentration to filling out the inevitable paperwork. She wasn’t quite done when Castle arrayed himself to brave the bleak midwinter.

“I’ll just be another five minutes,” she said. “See you there.” 

Castle, given a clear hint, scurried off, and made the church in good time. O’Leary’s mass was unwrapping itself from its cosy coverings, becoming merely single-peak-sized rather than a mountain range.

“Where’s Beckett?” he rumbled.

“Finishing up. She closed a case this afternoon, so she’s just doing the paperwork.”

“How’d she look?”

“Tired.”

O’Leary frowned. “You don’t look tired,” he said, frowning further. “Ain’t she calling you?”

“Yes, but I don’t have to be in the bullpen for start of shift, do I?”

“When did she call you?” rapped suddenly _Detective_ O’Leary.

“Uh…small hours. Two-ish.”

“Ah. I get it. An’ you went back to sleep – an’ _she_ carried on.”

“I guess so.”

“An’?”

“And what?”

“You got a sneaky look. You got a plan, don’t you?”

Castle tried to preserve an innocent expression, and failed miserably. Under O’Leary’s piercing stare, he gave in. 

“Yeah. I need to practice _Born A King_ and Beckett’s agreed to help me by rehearsing with me.”

O’Leary’s light eyes goggled. “How’d you manage that?”

“She felt guilty about waking me, so I used it.”

“Def’nitely sneaky.” It wasn’t unqualified approval, but it wasn’t disapproval either. “Smart.” More on the approval side of the line. “Mebbe it’ll even work.” He didn’t exactly sound convinced.

A fast clack-clacking and a certain amount of flustered movement in the soprano ranks indicated that Beckett had made it, approximately one millisecond ahead of Ben-the-choirmaster. She and O’Leary exchanged a brief wiggle of fingers, before all eyes turned to Ben.

Rehearsal passed off reasonably well, though O’Leary’s brows drew together during Beckett’s solo. Castle, listening with all his might, could just about detect an undertone of exhaustion, but O’Leary was obviously picking up something else. Ben seemed perfectly satisfied, which couldn’t have been said for his views on the tenor solo, where the man had inexplicably gone flat at a point he’d managed perfectly well the previous time. The choir had winced in perfect harmony.

“He does that every other time,” O’Leary said, discussing the bum note over a beer. “Dunno what Ben’s goin’ to do about it, ‘cause there isn’t anyone else to take the solo.”

“Scrap the solo,” Beckett said briskly. “Anton can’t handle it, and he’ll get worse the closer we get to the performance. We had this last year – remember?”

“Yeah. Ugh.” O’Leary cringed.

“Why Ben tried again… anyway, it’ll all fall apart next week.”

“An’ then we’ll all be playin’ catch-up to cover it. Ugh,” he repeated.

They all drank to that.

“You still ain’t got the cantata right,” O’Leary jibed. “Better practice a bit.”

Castle picked up the opening instantly. “I do need to,” he agreed. “Beckett, you said you’d help.” She blinked. “How about tomorrow? I’ll come to your apartment” –

“What?”

“If we do it at the loft my mother will critique – and you really don’t want that, do you?”

“Well, no, but” –

“So I’ll come round with coffee mid-morning and we can practice without Mother, er, _helping_. Great!”

“Sounds like a plan,” O’Leary rumbled. “I’m on shift, but if you’re still tryin’ to get it right, gimme a call an’ I’ll drop by after I’m done.”

“Okay.” Beckett was deeply dubious about how she seemed to have agreed without actually ever deciding to agree, but… whatever.

Where Beckett couldn’t see, O’Leary dropped an extremely unsubtle wink at Castle, which definitely counted as approval.

***

Castle stopped off at an excellent bakery for pastries and coffee, balanced the whole arrangement of drinks and deliciousness carefully as he rapped on Beckett’s door, and presented it first to – oh. Weekend Beckett was, um, _different_. No make-up – but just as gorgeous – and shorter. Ah. No heels. She’d tuck into his shoulder just perfectly, at this height. A soft, fluffy sweater over jeans, and even fluffier, cute socks. Even her hair was scrunched back into a messy bun with some escaping tendrils, curling appealingly around her ears. She’d never, ever looked like that in the precinct – which was probably just as well, because he could barely resist simply dropping the provisions and hugging her in. She was adorable.

“Are you coming in or not?” she asked.

“Sure. I come bearing gifts. Not gold, frankincense or myrrh” – she groaned – “but, far more valuable, coffee and pastries. And my music.” He looked around. “A cappella?”

“Yep. No room for a piano, and a guitar won’t help here.”

“You play the guitar?”

She nodded, a fine colour heating her cheeks. 

Castle didn’t comment or ask for a demonstration. “Can we use it for the starting note?”

“Sure.” She excavated an acoustic guitar from a niche, and returned to the couch and the coffee, fingers flickering over the strings, checking the pitch. “If we had O’Leary, we wouldn’t need this. He’s got perfect pitch.”

“You don’t?”

“You do?”

“Nope. Relative pitch, yeah. Not perfect. I’d love it, though.”

“Me too.” 

Beckett gulped at her coffee, and nibbled at the pastry. Castle munched on the pastry, and sipped his coffee. In between bites or sips, he studied his music, spread out on the table, as did Beckett.

“So this bit here” – he pointed – “is where I’m getting a bit stuck.”

Beckett woffled her nose in thought. “Okay. So we sing” – she strummed the soprano note on the guitar, and then unselfconsciously sang the line. “And you start here” – a different note. “Ready?” She struck the note again, and Castle began. Four bars in, he fluffed the notes.

“Dammit,” he muttered. “Can I have the note again?” 

Beckett played it, and Castle started again. This time he reached the tenth bar before fluffing.

“Again?”

Half an hour later, Castle still hadn’t managed the whole passage. “This isn’t working,” he growled. “I just can’t get it.”

Beckett looked sympathetically at him. “Let’s get a coffee,” she suggested, “and have a short break. After that, I’ve got an idea.”

“You do?”

“Yep.”

“What is it?”

“Not telling you till after coffee.”

“Beckett! That’s not fair. _I’m_ the only one who’s allowed to pull that trick.”

Beckett grinned evilly at him. “Revenge is sweet,” she pointed out, but failed to escape his grab for her laughter-shaking shoulders.

Laughter stopped abruptly as she fell in towards him. That hadn’t been the plan – and falling into his lap _certainly_ hadn’t been the plan. Ohhhh shit….ohhhh _my_. She’d put out a hand and oh _boy_ was there muscle under his pants. It was probably just as well her hand hadn’t been a couple of inches over, because she was suddenly, shockingly aware of his body. Desire ripped straight through her.

She wouldn’t have moved if Castle hadn’t straightened her up.


	5. Chapter 5

“Uh,” he said, which didn’t seem to Beckett to improve the moment much. “Uh, I didn’t mean that… please don’t shoot me, Beckett.”

Shooting him wasn’t the first thought in her mind. Ripping his shirt open to see if his chest was as muscled as his thighs was pretty high up the list, and kissing the hell out of him was higher still. She dragged back some self-control, which was nearly blown away again when she met his eyes.

“Coffee,” she said weakly. All her strength was controlling her fingers, and forcing her knees to function to move _away_ from Castle. Not into him. Coffee. Make coffee. Drink coffee. Do not kiss Castle. _Why not_? asked her mind. She didn’t have an answer for that.

Mechanically, she brewed coffee; Castle staying on the couch, for which Beckett was – yes, she _was_ – grateful. She brought it all back on a tray, hands steady, grip firm, and set it down, then sat down herself, as far apart from Castle as she had been before she’d, um, fallen into him. ( _you mean fallen for him._ ) He was fixing her with a penetrating blue gaze that seemed to bore right through her skin into her soul. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything about the…er…accident, though that was obviously requiring all of his strictly limited impulse control.

He sipped his coffee. Beckett gulped hers down, and tried very hard not to look at the movements of Castle’s throat or his lips against the china mug. Unfortunately that left her free to notice his hands; the flexing of his fingers, and the slight bulge of bicep under his shirt. She stared into her coffee cup and attempted to concentrate on the music in front of her.

“What was your idea?”

“Huh?” She jumped. Luckily, the coffee had mostly been drunk, and didn’t splash her.

“You had an idea. Before coffee. Which you meanly wouldn’t tell me. So now I’ve finished my coffee, what was it?”

Beckett ironed her rumpled thoughts smooth again. “I thought that I could sing the soprano line and you could sing your line alongside it. I thought that might be easier for you to pick up.”

He smiled. “Yeah. Probably it would be.” His forehead wrinkled as he thought about it. “Um…I think it would be better if we stood up and did it facing each other? Like we would do in rehearsal.”

“Okay.” She didn’t move immediately, but hummed the music through to herself, then, taking due cognisance of Castle’s positioning, moved to a safe distance away from him. She was mature and had self-control – but there was no point in taking chances, when she was so wholly conscious of him. “When you’re ready,” she said.

“Ready for you any time,” Castle oozed, and she instantly speared him with a solid-steel glare. “To start,” he hastily added, but mischief danced in his eyes.

“I thought you wanted to rehearse?”

“Practice does make perfect,” he replied, but it certainly wasn’t clear from his silky tones or heated gaze that he meant singing.

Castle knew he was beginning to push – but he hadn’t missed Beckett’s reactions to falling into him (which he really hadn’t meant, but didn’t regret) or her intent observation. He thought that if he simply played along and, well, took a little bit of advantage, she might be, um, friendly. And if she didn’t feel friendly, there would be other rehearsals.

While he waited for her to hum through the piece and then stand up, he glanced around her undecorated room. As O’Leary had said, one small, white, fibre-optic tree, sulking on a table against a side wall. Nothing else. Not a thing. No wreath on the door, no baubles, no tinsel, no Christmas lights. It was joyless.

“Ready?” she asked, and when he nodded, sketched the upstroke of a conductor’s baton with an elegant hand.

Some moments later, they stared at each other, the fall of the final note dying away in the still air.

“That… wow. That was _amazing_ ,” Castle breathed. “You… it… it really worked.” Every synapse was spinning: her mezzo mesmerising him.

Beckett merely fell into her couch, speechless. Every nerve she possessed was tingling, stroked into life by Castle’s velvet baritone. She couldn’t believe how well their voices had melded; and while she couldn’t hear them in the way an outside ear would, the effect had been…astonishing.

He collapsed into the space beside her, smiling delightedly. “You were great!” he bounced. “We need to do it again.”

“Uh-huh,” Beckett managed, through her reeling brain. “Give me a minute,” she added, and hauled herself off to her bathroom, where she made a valiant attempt to drown her seething emotions in cold water.

The little soothing that she had achieved was abruptly and painfully completed when she came back into the main room to be slapped with the contrast between Castle: large, warm and cheerfully joyful – and her apartment’s complete lack of any celebratory décor or seasonal enthusiasm.

“Beckett?” he queried.

“It’s fine. Let’s have another coffee and then do it again.” Her loathing of the season and the agonising memories could be submerged in the songs. And maybe later…after Castle had gone, which thought produced a tiny pang in her chest…maybe later she’d get a delicate bauble or two. Something tasteful; restrained; appropriate. She’d forgiven her father… and maybe, just maybe, it was time to start to move on?

“Okay,” Castle said, but he was watching her more closely, and the heat in his eyes had faded, replaced with concern. She turned to the coffee machine, and tried not to think about it.

“Let’s have another go,” Castle enthused, when the second coffee had disappeared. “It’s really helping.”

“Yeah. Okay. Do you need the note?”

“Not if you start.”

“Okay,” she said again. “I’ll play my note, then, and you can follow me.”

“Just like usual,” Castle said happily, and sprang up, ready to sing. Beckett followed, more slowly, gave the note, and began.

At the end of the second run-through, Beckett thought, with the extremely limited portion of her brain that _could_ think, that it had been even better than the first. Thinking was halted when Castle, clearly high on succeeding in singing without error, enthusiastically flung his arms around her and hugged her.

“That was even better!” he bounced. “It was so good!” He swung her round, and she squeaked.

“Put me down!”

Castle didn’t want to put Beckett down. Castle wanted to keep her firmly picked up, and better still, picked right up and carried into bed. However, he supposed he could let her feet touch the floor. If he must. He lowered her gently, but kept hugging her. _Only_ hugging her. Unfortunately, she pulled away, and he had to let her go.

He pouted at her, but it had no real upset behind it. “You’ve gone.”

“Yep,” Beckett said smartly. “I don’t like being spun round by a demented washing machine.”

“But it’s _fun_.” He caught her glare. “Oh- _kay_. No spinning.” Which carefully didn’t preclude hugging. “I’ve got a better idea.”

The fearsome Beckett glare acquired a sharp edge of scepticism. “What?”

“Lunch. I’m hungry. I’ve had a pastry and a gallon of coffee, but I could really use some actual food.” He smirked. “To give me energy for the afternoon’s activities.” The glare should have cut him in half. “Singing. Singing well takes energy. It’s the breathing, you know.”

“I _do_ know, thank you,” Beckett snipped.

“So, lunch.”

“I got some butternut squash soup, and some bread.”

“Sounds good. I thought you lived on take-out?”

“Soup’s nice in winter, and it’s easy. Heat up, eat.”

“Oh, Beckett, _please_ can we eat? I’m starving.”

She looked him up and down, slowly, and shook her head. “Definitely not starving,” she decided. 

Castle spluttered, wordless, and then took a long, slow perusal from her head to her toes and back again. “You don’t look as if you’ve been starved either,” he murmured, appreciation avid in his gaze. “Definitely not.” _Curves in all the right places_ , he thought, but luckily didn’t say.

Beckett emitted a disbelieving huff and strode to the kitchen to find a pan, the soup, and the bread. Castle ambled after her.

“Can I help?”

“You can cut the bread,” Beckett allowed. She set the soup on to heat through, and found two bowls, side plates, spoons and knives. “Butter in the fridge.”

Shortly, everything arrived on the table, and Beckett ladled out generous bowlfuls of soup.

“This is good. Where did you get it?”

Beckett mumbled something.

“Sorry?”

“I-made-it,” she muttered, blushing fiercely.

“You can cook?” Castle almost knocked the delicious soup over. “Why did you never tell me you could cook like this? Can I have the recipe?” He took another full spoonful. “It’s delicious.”

“Family recipe,” Beckett said, trying for lightness and failing. It had been her mother’s recipe, hauled out as soon as the temperature dropped towards freezing; a staple of her childhood. They’d made it together, when she’d come back from Stanford for Christmas. She blinked, then swallowed, then took a mouthful of bread to conceal the working of her throat. She might have spilt a spoonful of soup, if she’d lifted that to her mouth.

“Is something wrong?” Castle asked.

“Nope.”

He stared sceptically at her. “Really?”

“I’m fine.” She scowled at him, and if scowling screwed up her eyes so that not a single tear would escape, that was a useful extra. “If you like it so much, why aren’t you eating it?”

“I was taught never to talk with my mouth full,” he flipped back, and took a mouthful. 

“’Scuse me,” Beckett murmured, and precipitately quit her chair.

Behind the bathroom door, she gulped down sobs before they could be audible, flushed the unused toilet, and ran cold water into the sink, dabbing at her face and removing any incriminating marks of silent grief. She smoothed her hair down, patted her skin dry, and went back to finish her soup.

“Something _is_ wrong,” Castle noted.

“Nothing is wrong. Let’s finish lunch and try that piece again.” She determinedly spooned up her soup, and ignored the way it tasted exactly like her mom’s soup. Memory was not her friend, right now.

Memory was never her friend at Christmas-time.

Lunch finished, all the crockery and cutlery safely stowed in Beckett’s small dishwasher, and, yet more coffee made available, they essayed a third attempt on _Born A King_. Beckett lost herself in the music, and consequently failed to notice Castle’s concerned glances as her voice acquired an almost-ethereal note of sadness, incongruous against the joy of the season’s song.

They finished in beautifully smooth unison.

“I think you’ve got it,” Beckett said.

To Castle, it sounded as if she were hinting that he should leave. He didn’t like that idea at all, and he liked it less as he noticed the tiny lines of stress around Beckett’s hazel eyes; the slight pinch at her lush mouth.

“Only with you,” he said, and then realised how that might sound. “I…that wasn’t meant like that.”

“Really?” She quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “Mark the calendar, because it must be the first time.” But he could hear small fractures under her brisk tones, as if she were only pretending to be herself: the ice of her composure covering the roiling waters beneath.

He took a step towards her, but she sat down before his foot hit the floor. Instead, he pivoted, and succeeded in sitting down far closer to her than she would normally tolerate, or than he had earlier. When he wasn’t shot, or his ears or nose mauled (both equally likely), he pushed his luck further, and slid an arm along the back of the couch. Still nothing.

“Are you sick?” he asked. “Dead? Abducted by aliens and replaced by a cocoon person like in that movie?”

“Huh? You what now?”

“Well, I’m not dead.”

“No. You stay alive just to annoy me.”

“But I’m not annoying you now, am I?”

“You’re breathing. Therefore you’re annoying me.” Beckett’s answers were on autopilot. Snipping at Castle’s flirtation had become as automatic and natural as breathing.

“I don’t think so,” he contradicted.

“Oh?”

“I’ve got my arm around you and you haven’t ripped it off and beaten me to death with it. So you’re not annoyed.”

“What? You have not!”

His fingers tapped her far shoulder. “I have,” he said smugly. “See?”

Beckett emitted a _gleep_. Words were beyond her, unlike Castle’s arm, which was very much around her. It felt stupidly comfortable, and comforting.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” _That you can fix_.

The arm tightened, and tucked her in. “You’re fibbing.”

“I’m fine. Just leave it.”

“Okay,” he agreed, and left his arm exactly where it was, snuggling Beckett against him.

She thought about protesting, for all of a second, and then decided not to. Her earlier rush of desire had been lost in the harsh reality of the chilly Christmas winter, but a little cossetting wasn’t a bad option. She wriggled to become perfectly comfortable, and drifted into a soft haze of unspecific non-thinking, unconsciously humming through _Born A King_. Castle simply cuddled her, and nothing more. Somehow, it was precisely what she needed. _He always knows_ , she vaguely thought, and nestled closer, dropping her head on to his shoulder.

Castle thought that all of this was very hopeful, though some answers as to what was actually wrong would have been even more hopeful. Still, snuggly comfort was a great deal better than being shot, and surely if their voices fitted so well together, so would they in other areas. His body suggested firmly what those other areas would be, but since he was (despite appearances) a mature adult, he ignored it.

It was rather less easy to ignore Beckett’s delicately cherry-scented hair, since it was close enough to tickle his nose. He’d wanted to bury his face in it since their vampire case, and hadn’t had the slightest opportunity. If he simply tilted his head a fraction, and turned a little…there. Perfect. He nuzzled in and sighed contentedly. Beckett gave a wordless little murmur and curled in closer still.

Quite some time passed before Castle discovered that he had no feeling in his fingers. He shifted, and tried to move his arm, which had slipped between Beckett and the couch. As he extricated it, wincing at the pins and needles jabbing at his fingers, she emitted protesting noises.

“My arm’s gone to sleep,” Castle complained. 

“Shouldn’t have left it there.”

“Mean. You liked it there. I was making you happy.”

“What?”

“You weren’t objecting. So obviously you liked it. It brought you happiness, and who am I to deny you happiness?” He smiled sweetly.

“You are _so_ full of it” –

“Wouldn’t you rather” –

“Stop right there before I shoot you.”

Castle pouted at her. “But you’d like it.”

“What?”

“You already did like it.”

“We had sex and I didn’t even notice? I thought you had a reputation?”

Castle smiled slowly. “ _I_ meant wouldn’t you rather my arms were full of you, as in hugging you. But if you want to test my reputation, I’m game.”

Beckett descended into blackly inaudible muttering, with a side order of scowling glare.

“Maybe another time,” Castle added, improving the muttering not one whit, but increasing the intensity of the glare to nuclear-fusion levels, “but if you wanted to try it now, like I said, I’m game.”

Beckett emitted a subsonic-moving-to-F15-taking-off screech. 

“And now you’re back to normal irritation levels and snark,” Castle said smugly. “Mission Make-Beckett-Happy accomplished.”

Beckett, unwillingly, grinned. 

“Time I went,” he said. “Can we do another of these if tomorrow’s rehearsal isn’t great?”

“I guess, if a body doesn’t drop.”

“We could practice over the corpse. Murder with musical accompaniment. Like _Sweeney Todd_.”

“I don’t want any demon barbers.”

“But Beckett, have you never wondered where the food trucks get their supplies” –

“Eurgghhh. Shut up.”

“But” –

“Shut. Up.”

Castle had manoeuvred himself to the door, before Beckett’s irritation spilled over. He put a hand on the doorknob, then changed his mind, whipped across to her, delivered a massive bear hug to her surprised form, planted a kiss on her lips, and whipped out before she could work out what he’d done. He sauntered to the subway in an extremely happy mood.

Beckett stared at the door, touched a fingertip to her lips to ensure that they hadn’t spontaneously combusted, flopped down on to her couch, stood up, sat down, stood up again and made herself a coffee in the hope that it would reassemble her fragmented neurons into a coherent brain. It seemed unlikely.

Two strong coffees later, her brain functioned just enough to start wondering what the hell had happened – and why on earth had she let Castle just _leave_? She had a perfectly good set of NYPD-issue handcuffs right there, to stop him…oh. That would be bad. Misuse of police equipment. Unlawful imprisonment. Kidnapping. She shouldn’t do that.

And anyway, she thought more bleakly, looking at her undecorated apartment, why would he want to stay here? It was chill, unwelcoming, and rigidly unChristmassy. Like her, really. She looked at the dent in the cushions where Castle had been sitting, and resolved that she could, at least, change one thing. She could decorate her apartment a little. Nothing excessive. She remembered that she’d thought, a day or two ago, that her main room was, well, joyless. She _would_ change that.

She put on coat, scarf and beanie, located warm gloves in her pocket, and prepared, not without trepidation, to brave the crowds of scurrying shoppers who would undoubtedly stop in the middle of the sidewalk, or at the top of escalators, or block subway train doors with excessive shopping bags. She reminded herself firmly _not_ to take her Glock. She might be overly tempted to use it, and while she could plead provocation (and quite possibly succeed), it would be career limiting. Montgomery approved of Christmas, which was a serious flaw in his otherwise bearable Captaincy.

As it happened, Beckett didn’t need her gun to clear a path. Every Christmas shopper with half a brain and even the most minimal eyesight took one look at her face and turned aside. Support animals steered their charges from her path, and otherwise enthusiastic charity collectors, perfume saleswomen and other impediments to progress found a less, um, _challenging_ target. Quickly.

She started at Bryant Park, which had the extremely minor advantage of being central, but the major disadvantage of being full of strolling, happy, _inconvenient_ people. Beckett was not a people person, being cynically sure that everyone (except her) was guilty of crimes. Today, she was even more certain of it, since everyone (except her) was guilty of enjoying Christmas. Marching down the aisles, ignoring the purveyors of tasteless apparel (giant owl slippers? What were people on? Crack?) and food, she found herself at a stall entitled _Christina’s World_.


	6. Chapter 6

Beckett ignored all tastelessly Santa-fied baubles, and any that appeared specifically designed to attract that portion of the population which enjoyed cutesy animals or convivial merrymaking. Instead, she contemplated the smallest baubles, eventually purchasing (without concealing her wallet’s wince at the cost) three miniature glass balls decorated with a swirl of green vine which, without much effort, she could believe to be ivy. 

Baubles carefully covered in several yards of bubble wrap, she moved on, but the market had nothing more that she liked. She contemplated her next move, and reluctantly decided that Macy’s was the least-worst option. At least it was inside. Her nose was cold, and even in her boots her toes were shivering. She wandered in, and tried to ignore the bright décor as she went up to the Christmas store.

She walked into the appallingly-kitsch-named Santaland – and walked straight back out, punched point-perfect in the gut by pinpoint memory. Her parents had brought her here to see Santa. She remembered…

She had no idea how she got back outside, the bite of the December wind stinging her damp cheeks, the cold air chewing through her coat and boots and chilling her outside to match the cold vacancy within her chest. She looked for a subway sign, and then simply went home. She didn’t open the packaged baubles: merely laid them beside the desktop tree and ignored them as she went to her bedroom, stripped off and took the hottest shower she could bear, trying to warm her body and wash away the memories from her mind.

It didn’t really work. Three glasses of wine, though, did, even though she knew she’d regret the third in the morning. Normally she’d limit herself to one – per week. She wouldn’t be her father. Still, and most unusually, she had tomorrow off as well: a full weekend. Right now, she’d rather be at work tomorrow.

There was no reason she shouldn’t go into work tomorrow. She was perfectly certain that there would be cold cases which would benefit from a review, and paperwork that needn’t clutter up her desk or indeed her Monday. One never knew when a body might drop, after all. One should be prepared. And if being prepared also blocked out the miserable memories of the last ten years’ Christmases, well, it didn’t make it _wrong_.

None of which thoughts helped her misery, until she finally fell asleep.

***

In the morning the third glass of wine had left her fuzzy-headed, without curing the memory which had led her to drink it. Beckett felt that this was unfair, but a gallon or so of coffee cured the fuzziness. She dragged herself together, and took herself off to the precinct.

The precinct was relatively quiet, which suited her not-quite-throbbing head just fine. She began, and buried herself in the minutiae of murder.

“Detective Beckett!”

 _Oh, crap_. Montgomery’s decidedly _un_ dulcet tones cracked through the air.

“What are you doing here when you _should_ be off-shift?”

“Just tidying up some paperwork, sir.”

“Well, you can just tidy yourself right out of the precinct.” She winced, and opened her mouth. “Now, Detective. Not in five, or ten, or fifty minutes, but right now. Git!”

She got. 

Safely outside the door, and ensconced in the nearest coffee bar, she consulted her watch and found that it was that inconvenient period between now and rehearsal: too short to go home, too long to be able to stay in the coffee bar. Still, as she sipped her coffee and perused the news on her phone, she found that she was, if not happy, much less miserable than the previous afternoon. Maybe she should finish the previous day’s aborted shopping. She could get a wreath. A tasteful one, for her door. That would do. Determinedly, she faced the hell of Christmas shoppers and Christmas-decorated shops, and acquired a neat, small, and, above all, _tasteful_ wreath.

The flaw in her plan only became apparent when she realised that she’d have to take the wreath-package to choir, where it would undoubtedly spark comment, and then, since she had no good reason to refuse, to the bar with O’Leary and Castle (a little warmth curled in her chest at that thought), where it would spark a full-on discussion. Ugh. Nothing she could do about it now, however. Double ugh. Still, she could minimise the issue by arriving at choir early and hiding the package under a pew.

Arriving early and hiding the package was surprisingly successful. None of the other sopranos, nor the altos (all six of them, against the twenty sopranos), noticed it, and the women’s section masked the bundle from the men’s side, which helpfully meant that Castle and O’Leary couldn’t see anything.

Rehearsal proceeded as usual, but Anton flubbed his solo again, and Ben winced every time he tried to improve. Conversely, Castle and O’Leary’s bass section sang beautifully, and Beckett’s voice soared in her solo verse, which left Ben smiling as they finished.

“Bar time,” O’Leary rumbled at her, and swept her off, with her package, at which he looked interestedly. “What’s that?”

“Mine,” Beckett said, and failed to notice Castle being stopped by Ben as they left.

“Catch you up,” Castle called.

“Sure,” the other two said, without looking round to see what delayed him.

“I wanna know what the package is,” O’Leary wheedled. “Is it a present? Say you got me a present, Beckett. I deserve one. I been a good boy all year.”

“Oh, God. _Two_ of you? You sound just like Castle with a down-home accent.”

O’Leary extended a sausage-sized finger to prod at the package. “Paws off,” Beckett ordered.

“Awwww.” They reached the bar and sat down, O’Leary gazing hopefully at the bundle. “C’mon. I wanna know what it is.”

“I want a beer. My throat’s dry.”

“Sounded good, though. An’ your boy’s suddenly got a lot better. Rehearse with him, didya?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh? How’d that go?”

“Good.” O’Leary wriggled hedgerow eyebrows. “Oh, _okay_. It went well. He really got it.”

“Sure sounded like it. Nice voice he’s got there, when he’s sure of the tune.”

“Mm. Why’d he stay back?”

“Dunno. Mebbe Ben wanted a word. Guess Anton’s solo’s off the menu now, though. Just like last year. Why we can’t get a bass solo” –

“Because we don’t want the church falling down around our heads when you let loose and break all the mortar with the sub-bass vibrations,” Beckett teased.

“Mean. Very mean.”

“Sure, Joshua.”

“That was horns and trumpets,” O’Leary mumped. “An’ no-one’s goin’ to let me have those either. ‘S not fair.”

“It’s not fair that I don’t have a beer,” Beckett pointed out. “You first or me?”

“You.” 

Beckett made a face, but acquired three beers, leaving the spare one for Castle, if he should appear. If not, she’d drink it.

Halfway through the first sip, Castle appeared, somewhat shell-shocked. “Is that mine?” he asked, gesturing at the beer.

“Yup.”

He downed half the bottle in one go, took one breath, and sank the rest.

“What’s wrong? Ben throw you out?”

Castle shook his head, slightly wild-eyed. “No…”

“So what happened?” O’Leary asked. “You look like you been punched.”

“The cantata…”

“What about the cantata?”

“I need another beer.”

O’Leary got them in.

“Are you okay?” Beckett asked, as the second bottle disappeared as fast as the first.

“I…don’t know.”

“Yeah, but what _happened_?” O’Leary said again, impatiently.

Castle shook himself, in the manner of a dazed St Bernard, and wriggled on his chair. “The cantata’s got a baritone solo part. Ben wasn’t going to do it, because he didn’t have a baritone, and I didn’t know it last time…but since we” – he looked at Beckett – “did that rehearsing yesterday and I got it nailed…he wants to do that instead of Anton’s tenor solo…and…er…um…er…”

“He wants you to sing it,” Beckett finished, and gaped at him, in tandem with O’Leary.

“You get a solo?” O’Leary wailed theatrically. “I don’t get no solos.” Castle cringed. “’T ain’t fair. Obv’sly Ben don’t love me.”

“That’s ‘cause you shiver his bones every time you go low,” Beckett said sardonically.

“But it ain’t _fair_!” O’Leary wailed louder. 

Castle cringed as small as he could manage, and looked pained. “I didn’t _ask_ for it,” he weebled. “I only joined choir five minutes ago.”

“O’Leary’s just ragging you,” Beckett pointed out. “He knows he’s not able to sing baritone – and that we haven’t sung anything with a bass solo because it’s all too complex for the rest of us.”

“Not you, butterfly.”

“Or you, Bigfoot – but we’ve got nineteen sopranos, six altos and six tenors who couldn’t do it without months of practice.”

“Don’t I count?”

“Not in the _incapable_ group, if Ben’s suggesting you solo already.”

Castle gaped at her. “Was that a _compliment_ , Beckett? I might faint.”

She growled.

“Lordy,” O’Leary drawled, “I do believe it was. Why, butterfly, I might b’lieve you were gettin’ to like this guy. Now, don’t you go gettin’ all soft on me.”

Beckett made to punch him. O’Leary caught her fist, faster than Castle would have believed a man that big could move.

“Don’t work on the mats, an’ it won’t touch me now neither.”

“Big bully,” she sulked.

“Aw, you love me really.”

“Nope.”

“Awwwww.”

“Save it for Pete.” She turned to Castle. “So are you going to do the solo?”

Unusually, Castle seemed to have lost confidence. “Uh…”

“G’wan,” drawled out O’Leary. “You can’t do worse than Anton, an’ at least if you get the yips we all know it.”

“Glad you’re so confident,” Castle snipped.

“If Ben says you can do it, you can,” Beckett said firmly. “But if you’re going to get stage fright and choke, tell him now. I can’t bear another round of someone like Anton.”

“I don’t get stage fright and choke!” Castle squawked, offended. “But…I haven’t sung solo for years and I haven’t sung in a choir for years either. I don’t wanna let you all down.”

“Easy way to settle that,” O’Leary trailed across the conversational track. “We all go back to Beckett’s, an’ try it. Okay, so we don’t got a tenor, or an alto, but Beckett’s got enough range to go down some, an’ it’ll be fun. C’mon. Drink up, an’ let’s go.”

Beckett was still catching up with O’Leary’s calm annexation of her apartment as a rehearsal hall as they hit their cars, Castle, of course, with her.

“How did that happen?” she asked the falling snow. Castle shrugged, which made the snowflakes falling on his shoulders glint in the streetlights. “How does he always get his own way? He’s better at it than you, without the connections.”

“He’s your pal. You tell me.”

“When I find out,” Beckett grumbled, “I’ll know how to stop it.”

She pulled up at her apartment and glared at a huge SUV, just manoeuvring neatly into another space. O’Leary lumbered out of it, and grinned. “Hope you got some beer.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t give me that. You always got some beer in, so I come ‘n’ see you.”

Beckett muttered something inaudible. “I’ve got wine,” she said. “You can be civilised for an evening, and drink wine.”

“Iffen I must, I guess.”

Beckett raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You like wine just fine, Bigfoot. Stop pretending to be a redneck.”

“Awww, but it’s _fun_.”

“Leave it out. It doesn’t work on me, and it won’t work on Castle either.” She grinned. “Do you want wine or just soda?”

“Wine,” O’Leary conceded. “Thanks.”

Beckett poured three glasses. “Okay, so how d’you wanna play this?” she said to Castle. “We could start all together, and then let you carry on, or you can just go for it.”

“What d’you do yesterday?” O’Leary asked.

“Duetted till Castle got it.”

“Need the note?”

“Not from you. We’ll take it from the guitar, but you can check the pitch.” O’Leary nodded, Beckett picked up the guitar, and plucked a string.

“A li’l sharp.” She tweaked it. “That’s it.”

“Ready?” she said to Castle, and they both stood. “Here’s the note.” They began. Two bars in, O’Leary’s massive jaw had dropped and his wine was untouched on the table. Beckett stopped at the beginning of the solo, and Castle carried on till the part had ended.

“Wow,” the mountain managed. “Wow. I guess Ben don’t know you two match like that?”

“Huh?”

“Iffen he did, you’d be duettin’ everywhere a duet could be.”

“No, thanks,” Beckett said swiftly. “One solo’s enough for me.”

“And me,” Castle agreed.

Beckett spotted the glint in O’Leary’s eye. “Don’t you dare tell him, okay?”

“Spoilsport.”

“No,” she said implacably. “Not one single word.”

“Aw, _whatever_. You’re no fun, you know.”

“No,” she said again, and picked up her wine glass in a conversation-changing way. “Do you need to have another run through?”

“I don’t think so,” Castle said. “Not tonight, anyway.”

O’Leary drained his wine in one mouthful. “I better go,” he said. “Long way home.” Beckett regarded him sceptically. “Out of Manhattan. I need my beauty sleep. You two finish the wine.” He heaved his bulk into motion – it was amazing, Beckett thought, how O’Leary could look like the slowest mountain on earth most of the time and then move like Usain Bolt when he needed to – and was out of the door before either of the others had finished their goodbyes.

Beckett poured herself some more wine, and quirked her eyebrows at Castle.

“Yes, please.” She refilled his glass, and sat down, where Castle shortly joined her. “Cheers,” he said, and tipped a generous mouthful back, followed by a second.

“Moving pretty fast there,” she noted.

“Yeah.” He paused. “It’s been a hell of an evening.”

Beckett looked more closely at him. “You’re a bit uptight about this. I’d’ve thought you’d be used to being front and centre – it’s not like you’re ever shy and retiring around the rest of your life.”

Castle’s face pinched. “The rest of it I’m _expected_ to be front and centre. I’m a best-seller, and it’s part of the deal. I’m supposed to be the star. This…I only just joined the choir, and I never wanted to beat out the guys who’ve been there forever. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Beckett sipped thoughtfully. “I don’t think most of them’ll care. Maybe Anton, but he’s blotted his copybook too often for anyone to listen. And” – she wriggled uncomfortably – “you’ve got a nice voice. Ben doesn’t play favourites.”

“It still doesn’t feel comfortable.”

“I guess not. You don’t have to do it,” she said casually.

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?” she prodded. “We’ve managed without a baritone at all for ages, so we can manage without a baritone solo.”

“I’d be letting Ben down. That’d be like kicking a puppy. He’d just stare at me with those big brown eyes and he’d be so disappointed.”

“So do it.”

“First you say don’t, then you say do. That’s no help.” 

“I’m not making this decision for you.”

“But” –

“No. You’re a big boy and you can make it yourself.”

“I _am_ a big boy,” Castle oozed. Beckett made a disgusted face at him. “I’m over six feet tall. That’s big.” She contemplated sticking her tongue out, and thought better of it. He’d only take it as an invitation.

“What’s in the packages?” he asked, looking around.

“Stuff,” she said, uninformatively. 

Castle stood and wandered over to the packages, placed by the Christmas tree. He poked them, tapped them, and then shook them gently.

“Leave them,” Beckett snipped. “Can’t you stop touching things for a moment?”

Castle wandered back to the couch. “If I can’t touch one thing, I could touch another,” he suggested, and promptly dropped his arm around her as he sat down.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve had a shock. I need a comfort object,” he said piously, but his fingers drew a little pattern on her arm. “You told me I couldn’t touch the packages, so…”

Beckett really meant her wriggle to separate her from Castle, however, she seemed to have wriggled in closer.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “I feel happier already.”

So did Beckett, which was equal shares irritating and reassuring. Castle was so very nicely large, warm, and tactile – but he was also annoyingly curious, cocky and casual. Except that today he wasn’t. He’d actually been concerned about upsetting the other choristers – really, truly concerned, not just faking for effect. She wiggled closer still, without actually thinking about it, and his arm tightened around her.

“O’Leary won’t go running off to Ben, will he?” he asked.

Beckett shrugged. “Hope not.” O’Leary was a law unto himself, and there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop a mobile mountain, anyway.

“What _is_ in the packages? Presents? Say you bought me a present, Beckett.”

“You’re as bad as O’Leary. No. I haven’t gotten either of you a present.”

“Awww. You should give me a present.”

“Why?”

“Because you like me.” He grinned naughtily. “And because I’ve gotten one for you.”

Beckett sat bolt upright. “You what? Got me a present? Why?”

“Why not?”

“What is it?”

“I think you’ve missed an essential part of the present experience. It’s a surprise.” He smiled sweetly at her.

“I don’t like surprises,” Beckett grumped.

“Surprises are _fun_. You never know what’s going to happen.”

“I like predictability. I get enough unpleasant surprises at work.”

“You get some nice surprises too. You got me.”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon. I’m a nice surprise.”

“You were a surprise.”

“Now you’re just being mean again. Of course I was a nice surprise. Here I am being nice, and I was a surprise, so I’m a nice surprise.”

Beckett was perfectly sure that that wasn’t how one defined a nice surprise, but she wasn’t going to argue definitions with a wordsmith. It would be a waste of energy, as Castle would just keep arguing until she was exhausted. She glared at him, instead.

Oh. Oh. She could see straight into his eyes, which meant that their faces were level, which meant…

Oh. Ohhhhhh.

She really hadn’t meant to lean forward. She really hadn’t meant to land on his lips. But she had. And it might just have been the best non-idea she’d had since…ever. She hadn’t been kissed like this in her whole entire life. She’d made an – entirely inadvertent – move, and Castle had taken full and instant advantage.

Oh, _boy_. Or rather, oh, _man_. No boy could have kissed her like this. The arm around her shoulders turned her into him, the other wrapped around her waist, holding her close; his hand had moved from shoulder to cup the side of her face and oh-so-gently angle her head to his desire; and his lips had taken hers without a single hesitation. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, asking for entrance, but when she gave it there was no more asking; only sure demands that she surrender to the flaring, sparking desire that had ignited between them.

She thought, fuzzily, that this could be defined as a nice surprise.


	7. Chapter 7

Castle thought that Beckett kissing him could be defined as a wonderful miracle, and one that he certainly wasn’t going to let pass by him. After that, thought was strictly limited to the soft touch of her lips, and then his invasion of her mouth, his arms around her to keep her close, the sure exploration as he discovered that she was as hotly responsive as he could ever have wanted. He pulled her in tighter, caging her, sliding a hand from her face into her hair, never stopping kissing her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then locked around his neck; she turned so that her legs draped over his lap and he tugged her up to sit there, where he could have her pressed against his chest and totally, wholly, entirely enclosed in him.

Far too soon – _ever_ would have been far too soon – she lifted away from him, dazed hazel eyes meeting his.

“Come back,” he enticed.

“What…what just happened?”

“Well, when two people like each other very much,” he began.

“I know what kissing is,” she growled.

“So do I, and that was definitely kissing that just happened. Shall we do some more of it? It was nice.” Which was a drastically understated comment. It had been spectacular. He’d never connected like that. He became aware that his hands were still pressing her in, holding her as close as he could – and didn’t loosen up at all.

“How…”

“You kissed me, so I kissed you back. I like kissing you. Let’s do it some more.” She stared at him. “No? How about a cuddle, then.”

“I think you are cuddling me,” she said dryly.

“I am? So I am.” He smiled slowly and sleepily. “I guess that’s why we’re both happy.” He stroked down her back, and she curved into his touch. “You seem pretty happy to me.” He encouraged her head to lie on his shoulder, and the rest of her to stay leaning against him, where he could pet and cosset. He wouldn’t at all mind moving further, faster, harder, hotter – but she’d been so oddly emotionally up and down in the last few days: jerking from normality to misery and hiding it in snark and outright denial, that maybe all she needed was…well, cuddles. Maybe all _he_ needed, tonight, was cuddles. Slow and easy, soft and gentle. Funny, he’d always thought that it would start hot and hard, probably angry, surely not gentle.

And then they’d sung together, and it had been magnificent. _Music doth soothe the savage breast_ , he recalled. It had certainly soothed the savage Beckett. He petted and cossetted some more, and felt her relax. He _liked_ her all snuggled up and pettable. He’d never really seen off-duty Beckett before, and all of her off-dutiness (was that even a word, he wondered?) was, well, _unstructured_. Not the rigid Beckett of the precinct or crime-solving or steely-eyed interrogation, but a Beckett with fluffy sweaters and cute woolly socks and little curls in her normally ruthlessly controlled hair – and who sang like an angel and duetted with him as if they’d done it all of their lives.

The petting produced a further softening of the Beckett body against Castle’s wide chest, which led to further stroking, which led, without much of a gap, to finding that her light breathing was accompanied by the brush of eyelashes on cheeks, and a small sleepy noise.

“Are you awake?” he murmured.

“’S late,” she muzzed back. “I should go to bed.”

Castle thought that going to bed would be an unutterably wonderful idea, but since he wasn’t a narcophiliac and believed very strongly that Beckett should be awake, consenting, and enjoying it, he also thought that tonight was (sadly) not the time to suggest he joined her.

“What, no more comfort and joy?” he teased.

“My bed is comfortable and sleep would be joyful,” she batted back, split by a massive yawn and a small snuggle.

“One last thing, then.”

“What?” she asked, beginning to slip off his knee.

He turned her back to him. “A goodnight kiss, of course,” and he provided it, light on her lips.

Which worked for the millisecond it took for those luscious lips to open under his. About that point it ceased to be a light goodnight kiss and converted itself into potent, powerful passion. He couldn’t resist her mouth, right there for him to invade and raid and conquer; right there surrendering to him. He pressed deeper, harder: taking everything she was giving and giving back; his hands hard on her back and capturing her, keeping her, never letting go…

He hadn’t been going to do this. She was tired, she’d been half-asleep, she needed to rest. He slowed, softened, gentled…pulled back, and returned to petting.

“You stopped,” she said crossly.

“ _You_ said you wanted to go to sleep.” He smiled suavely. “While I’d be absolutely delighted to join you in bed, I don’t think that you’d get much sleep.” She spluttered. “You’re the one who kissed me first. I’m just a man,” he said innocently, “and if you’re going to kiss me, of course I’m going to kiss you back.” The innocence slipped towards naughtiness. “Or whatever, but since I’m well-behaved” – she spluttered again – “and you said you wanted to sleep, I’m taking you at your word. If you wanna change your mind…” he trailed off, at her glare, ruined by another gaping yawn. “Guess not. Night night, Beckett. Till tomorrow.” He almost danced out of the door, and into a cab, and then home, where he cuddled the memory of Beckett cuddled into him to himself until he fell asleep, to dream of much more than cuddles.

Beckett betook herself to bed, pausing only to wash, and curled down among her pillows with a remarkable feeling of happiness, appropriate to the season but utterly unfamiliar to her. She drifted into dreams, and woke on Monday morning with time to spare to open her wreath and hang it on her front door. The baubles would wait until she got home, mainly because, small though they were, they were still disproportionately large against her tiny fibre optic tree. Some rethinking required, she thought, and for the first time in years didn’t outright reject the idea of a little more Christmas decoration.

***

Monday morning brought murder. Nasty, messy, domestic murder, with a corpse lying with his head smashed in under a Christmas tree, the lights still twinkling. The corpse’s wife was hysterical; her brother, who had been visiting, now missing. Christmas, it seemed, had brought only family tension and rows. Beckett gritted her teeth, shoved away the memories of her father drunkenly arguing, then sobbing, then blacking out, and began.

“What’ve we got, Lanie?”

“Beaten about the head with a blunt object – I won’t know what it might be till I can take proper measurements. Quite a lot of force used. I’m leaning towards male.”

Beckett looked at the new widow, still sobbing tempestuously. She was around five-foot-nothing, and waif thin. Not slim. Thin, which was odd, because the apartment was well furnished and warm, and the tree and decorations had not been scanted. Money didn’t seem to be the immediate issue here.

Interviewing the widow – at the precinct, to give CSU a clear field and remove her from the traumatic scene – was slow, painful, and presently useless. Even Castle’s patent charm and soothing empathy wasn’t getting them anywhere.

“Where’s your brother?” Beckett said with exemplary – and strained-to-snapping-point – patience.

“I don’t _know_! He was gone when I got back,” she wept. “He wouldn’t” –

“Did he get on with your husband?”

“Mostly,” she whimpered.

“Mostly?” Beckett jumped on the admission. Terri Wimslow cowered.

“C’mon, Terri,” Castle soothed. “Families quarrel and argue. My mother and I argue all the time: she takes my wine and I tell her off, she gets upset and I have to apologise and let her drink my good wine.” He smiled ruefully. “I always have to back down, and sometimes…well, just a few days ago I was so annoyed with her I didn’t back down and now she’s barely speaking to me. And she’s still drinking all my best wine, too.”

Terri managed a weak smile, and dabbed her eyes. “Carson wasn’t a bad guy, but…well, he lost his job, and he wasn’t doing much about a new one, and Jason got a bit uptight when Carson just landed on our couch and said he’d come for Christmas – but he put up with it: Jason, I mean. But, well, he tried telling Carson he should get another job – anything, really, and then Carson had a few and then hit me up for money and I said no and Jason told him to get out and be gone by the time he got home tomorrow night. And Carson really lost it and told Jason he was a…a…”

“It’s okay,” Beckett said gently, though she was struggling to hold her own memories back. Carson had been drunk and aggressive. She knew about that.

“A crap husband because I wasn’t eating enough and look how thin I was but…but he didn’t know…”

“Didn’t know what?” Still the soothing tones from Beckett.

“Morning sickness.” Terri dissolved into tears again. “It’s been awful and I can’t keep anything down and the doctor said if I lost any more weight they’d have to take me in and Jason was so worried and trying so hard to find anything I could eat and then Carson was such an asshole and now what? Jason’s dead and I’ll have to raise our baby on my own…” She fell apart again.

“Terri,” Beckett said, still so very gently, though internally her ten-year agony was clawing at her chest, “where is Carson?”

“I don’t know. If I knew…I’d tell you. He killed my husband and I don’t care that he’s my brother” – the rest was lost in her sobs.

“Is there anything at all he might have said that would help us find him?”

“Maybe a bar?” Castle added, “Or friends?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Beckett said. “Thank you. Would you like someone to take you home, or is there someone we can call?”

“No… Can I stay here for a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

They left her in the conference room, but before Castle could say anything Beckett excused herself to the restroom. She returned a couple of moments later, apparently unmoved, but Castle could see the small creases in her brow, a tautness in her neck and shoulders. He didn’t ask.

“Choir tonight,” he said instead. “Will you be able to go?”

“Probably,” Beckett replied, and she almost sounded normal. “We’ll get everything started, and get uniforms canvassing, but until we’ve got Carson – or street cams, or witnesses – we’re not going to get further. By shift end we’ll have all our requests in, but we won’t have a single answer.” She strode over to the boys, and started issuing orders, punctuated by discussions of the best areas for street cams, what to write in warrants for financials, and harassment of CSU, which drew protests from Ryan.

“Beckett, they’ll poison us if we hassle them tonight. You know it won’t happen. We won’t get the autopsy from Lanie for a couple of days, even.”

Beckett’s growl was audible a block away.

“Stand down,” Espo said. “You know the drill as well as we do. Put ‘em in, wait, wait some more, get some info.”

“I don’t have to like it.”

“We know,” Ryan said, in a put-upon tone that should have had him shot.

“Shoo,” Espo added. It was truly amazing that neither of them had ignited in flames. Beckett stomped off, looking around the bullpen for anyone else who might be badgered or bothered or plain bullied into getting her some information. Uniforms uniformly ducked. Castle, recalling the adage, decided that coffee – and the discreetly out of view break room – was the better part of valour, and continued life, and disappeared with alacrity to make some.

When he returned with a steaming mug, Beckett was glaring holes into her screen, desk, and anyone who was dumb enough to cross her sightline. He put the mug down, carefully remaining out of view, but (somewhat to his surprise) she picked it up, drained it in one scalding draught, and then turned.

“You can stop hiding now,” she snarked. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Probably.”

Which was a good deal less certain than Castle would have liked, and – because he was, well, not _quite_ hiding behind her – since he couldn’t see her face, he couldn’t tell how much of it was a joke. Or not. He came back round, and sat in his chair. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” Beckett snipped. “I can’t do _anything_ until I get some information.”

“We could do lunch, then. You know everything’ll show up right when you have to leave for” – she glared, and he hastily recast the sentence to avoid any mention of choir – “er, home and you won’t have a chance to get dinner. So you should come and get lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Beckett said. 

Castle regarded her piercingly. “Really?”

“Yep.”

His voice dropped. “Not hungry, or not happy?” 

She stared. “What?”

“I saw you tightening up every time Terri mentioned fighting or alcohol.”

“Both,” she admitted, after a tense silence.

Castle snapped his mouth shut before he could emit his rapid, correct – and no doubt unhelpful – conclusions. Beckett was miserable enough in this season of expected joy: he didn’t need to remind her of why.

“Okay. I’m hungry. Shall I bring you back a coffee and a pastry instead?”

“It’s okay, thanks.”

Beckett didn’t want anything to eat: her stomach cramping over the memories that Terri had resurrected. She reminded herself firmly that she could _do_ this: she’d done it every year; and then that she would be singing later on and could lose herself in the music. She could always come back to the precinct afterwards. O’Leary would fuss, but he couldn’t stop her. She just wished she had something to do with the afternoon, rather than returning to old cases.

Sadly, the afternoon produced no initial answers, which improved Beckett’s view of the world not one iota. Castle left for choir ahead of her – no point in giving the boys any _more_ ideas: they had plenty of those already, and none of them were welcome – and, after she favoured Ryan and Esposito with her views on the inability of various information providers to provide information, with vim, point, and venom, Beckett followed him.

Choir was…interesting. Anton was clearly sulking at being deprived of his solo, but Castle opened his lungs and shoulders and sang to the top of his – in Beckett’s view – considerable ability. Even O’Leary looked impressed, and Ben was positively glowing. Fired by the competition, Beckett did the same for her solo, and Ben’s glow increased to a level that would have powered the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree from Advent to Twelfth Night.

As the choir filed out, Anton casting baleful glances at Castle and Ben, O’Leary dropped behind, instructing Castle to get the beers in. Castle looked around for Beckett, and didn’t see her, finally catching a glimpse of her jacket already halfway out of the door. He took a few swift strides and caught up to her.

“Where are you off to?”

“Back to the precinct.”

“Don’t you want a drink?”

“No. I need to get back and see what we’ve got.”

Castle held her gaze, letting his worry show. 

“I’m _fine_ , Castle. I need to do this. See you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow.”

He turned for the bar, already resolving that after a beer he’d go to the precinct himself, and got two beers in. Shortly, O’Leary arrived, smirking in a conspiratorial way that put Castle on full, instant alert.

Conspiratorial smirk disappeared in a heartbeat as the big man discovered the absence of Beckett. “She’s gone to the precinct, hasn’t she?” he said, without a trace of ungrammatical drawl. “Shit. Here we go.”

“Uh?”

“She’ll be there till Twelfth Night. She’ll go home to wash and change and _mebbe_ grab a couple of hours’ sleep. On a good night. The only thing she’ll do that ain’t workin’ is choir.” His light eyes stabbed through Castle. “Now, I _could_ go pick her up an’ carry her out, but I don’t like that idea much an’ I sure won’t like the scratches I’d have when it’s done.” He paused. “Or you could drink that beer, an’ then go _persuade_ her to go home.”

“Oh?”

“Well, now. I’m a detective, an’ I detect that Beckett’s lookin’ at you differently since last week. So I reckon you c’n persuade her that there’s better things to be doin’ than starin’ at cold cases till dawn.”

Castle calmly met O’Leary’s gaze. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“Aw, just in case you hadn’t been plannin’ it anyways. Seems like you were, though. Iffen you hadn’t been, you’d be answerin’ differently.”

“Mm. So” – Castle smiled sharply – “why were you late?” The smile acquired edges. “You wouldn’t have been suggesting to Ben that Beckett and I sound nice together, would you?”

“Would I?” O’Leary said innocently.

“Yep. You didn’t promise anything the other night, so I guess you’ve spent the last few minutes tattling.”

“You gotta admit, you sound great together.” Castle waited. “I might’ve.” And waited some more. “Yep.” He didn’t seem in the slightest guilty or even a little ashamed. “For two people who didn’t know each other could sing two weeks ago, you match up really well.” He grinned evilly. “An’ not just in singin’, neither, ‘less I miss my guess.”

Castle studiously didn’t respond.

“I guess I don’t.” He smirked again. Castle squashed down a deep desire to remove the smirk forcibly, realising that he’d have no more chance of disturbing O’Leary than a gnat would, and pulled on his beer instead, not hurrying, daring O’Leary to comment.

“So what’s Ben going to inflict on us?” Castle asked, instead of berating O’Leary’s interference.

“Dunno. But I left him searchin’ through a big pile of Christmas music, so I guess we’ll all find out pretty soon.”

“She _will_ shoot you.”

“Naw. I’m too cute.”

“Yeah, right. You’re just a giant teddy bear.”

O’Leary guffawed. “Sure I am.”

“Who bench presses better than 400lb?”

O’Leary wriggled uncomfortably. “Has been known,” he admitted. “You don’t have to make a thing of it, though.”

“Like you didn’t have to make a thing of us singing?”

“Harsh. Very harsh.”

“But fair,” Castle said, with some point.

“You’ll sound lovely,” O’Leary smirked. “Anyways, you finished that beer a few minutes ago, an’ Beckett’s had nearly an hour to find out there’s no new information, so unless you want her to be in a really bad mood, you better go.”

Castle gave up. O’Leary was completely imperturbably and unrufflable. “Night,” he said.

“Seeya.”


	8. Chapter 8

The bullpen was quiet, gloomy, and largely deserted. A puddle of light dribbled from Beckett’s desk, leaving her in shadowed silhouette. The mug to her left steamed gently; the screen, devoid of the tinsel that decorated other workstations, or their desks or chairs (or all three), glowed sulkily. A file lay open in front of her, but she stared into the dark space ahead, hands still, mind rerunning her past.

She shouldn’t do this. She had no good reason to; she and her father had worked through it; she’d forgiven him; forgiven herself for letting him fall.

If only she could forgive herself for not solving her mother’s murder. If only she could…maybe she’d escape the sting of memories, the unfinished feeling and lack of any closure. At least her cases got closed. Detective Beckett _always_ got her man. Or woman. 

The thud of footsteps on the floor warned her, but she didn’t turn: familiar with the cadence of the steps.

“Castle,” she said, resigned.

“Yep.” He slid into his chair, looked at her coffee mug, and slid out again in the direction of the break room. A few moments later he returned with a coffee of his own. “You’ve got one,” he said at her questioning look, “so I’ll have one too. I need it.”

“Oh?”

“Your pal O’Leary” –

“Ye-es?” she said suspiciously. “What’s he – that double-dealing _rat_! He’s gone to Ben and snitched, hasn’t he? What the _hell_? I will _shoot_ him. I will cut out his liver and kidneys and feed them to the stray cat round the precinct door. I’ll _kill_ him, that _rat_!”

“Guess you’re not pleased?”

“Too damn tootin’ right I’m not _pleased_!”

Beckett was incandescent with rage. How could he? That oversized, underbrained, interfering _haystack_ was going to be doused in gasoline and set alight the very next time she saw him. In fact, she was going to make a special trip to Central Park precinct to arrange it. She descended into ever more infuriated, profanely black mutterings as her imagination presented ever more inventive ways to wreak revenge.

“And apparently Ben liked the idea.” Another full five minutes of extensive ire, expressed without hesitation, deviation, or repetition. “O’Leary said he – Ben, I mean – was looking through music when he left.”

Another five minutes passed in infuriated exposition, after which Beckett soothed her scraped throat by downing the whole of her coffee and considered – volubly and with venom – impaling O’Leary on a Christmas tree and then strangling him with the lights and tinsel, after which she’d ram baubles down his oversized windpipe.

“Can I help?”

“You can hold my coat.”

“Okay,” Castle conceded, though it was obvious he didn’t like that strictly limited idea. “Can I have a go when you’re finished? Or dance a jig on the bloody shreds that’re all you’re going to leave?”

“Yeah.” She grumbled some more, as Castle drank his coffee, and finally ran down.

“Let’s go cheer ourselves up,” Castle said. “How about we go get something to eat, and drink? Remy’s? I need to eat red meat and drink beer.”

“I…” Beckett vacillated. “Uh…but this case…”

“You can come back after we get dinner,” Castle said, more cheerfully than she thought was warranted. Shouldn’t he be trying to stop her?

“I guess.” It came out doubtful, but Castle didn’t seem to notice.

Castle certainly had noticed, but Beckett didn’t normally respond well to being told what to do, so he was trying sneakiness and diversion. He hoped that over a decent dinner, he could try a little bit of cuddling and cossetting, and then possibly he might encourage Beckett to try a little more than cuddling. The other night had been explosive, and he would really, _really_ like to explore exploding a little – a lot – further.

“C’mon. I’m hungry, and if I drink any more coffee I’ll get an ulcer.”

“I think that’s your age,” Beckett snipped.

“I’m not old, I’m mature. Experienced,” he leered. She rolled her eyes, but put her coat on and followed him out.

They settled and ordered in Remy’s: which took no thinking at all. Castle leaned on his better instincts – for now – and took his usual place opposite Beckett, who was contemplating her neat fingernails as they tapped fretfully on the table. Conversation was non-existent, but fortunately Remy’s had the fastest service on the East Side and their burgers arrived in a very few minutes. Beckett, having (Castle remembered) skipped lunch, inhaled hers, along with her milkshake, and then sat back to contemplate the dessert listing, though Castle knew she’d have brownies. She always did. Her fingers tapped further, and Castle put his hand over hers, pulling gently at her digits to smooth them into his. Amazingly, she allowed him to catch and keep her hand, and then turned it to complete the clasp. Her skin was cool and a little dry, where his thumb stroked over it.

“Brownies?” he asked anyway. “I want something sweet.”

Beckett looked down at her hand, still firmly clutched in Castle’s. “Yeah, thanks,” she said, and didn’t drag her hand clear, even when the brownies arrived. They had a sprig of holly on them, which Beckett regarded disfavourably. Castle plucked it off before it shrivelled up under her glare, and arranged it with his sprig, tucked together. Beckett munched her brownie, clearly not commenting on his whimsy.

“Coffee?” he suggested.

Beckett had been thinking. Mostly, she’d been thinking that she hated Christmas; but every so often she’d thought that she liked Castle holding her hand. She wouldn’t achieve anything back in the bullpen, and – she peeped at Castle through her lashes when he wasn’t watching – Castle would, if encouraged at all, provide hugs, kisses…and anything more that developed.

“Yeah, but…wanna have it at mine?”

Castle gleeped. “Sure I do, but…are you sure, Beckett?”

“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”

“You threaten to kill me every few days, but I don’t think you mean that – do you?”

“Depends how much you’re annoying me.”

“You mean you would shoot me? I’m hurt.”

“If you’re that hurt, you don’t have to have coffee,” she said, and tugged at her hand. It didn’t separate.

“Oh, yes, I do. I need to convince you not to shoot me.” He smiled. “Let’s get the check and go.” 

Castle’s hand stayed locked in Beckett’s all the way to her apartment, when it migrated, as they exited the taxi, to her waist, nestling her neatly into him in the elevator. Still there was no hint of objection, and Castle began to believe that actually he could do this. He could bring her some joy, and ensure that she managed at least some pleasure, despite her hatred of the season.

At her door, bedecked with a small, tasteful wreath, he stopped dead with the shock. “You…you put up a Christmas wreath!” he stammered. “But…”

Beckett’s spine went rigid, and her attitude closed right up, even as she opened the door. “Coffee?” she asked, but there was thin, fragile ice under her question, and she began to pull away from her tucked in warmth.

“Come back,” Castle said, and tugged her into his arm again. “Don’t shut me out. I was surprised, that’s all. I thought you didn’t do wreaths.”

“I changed my mind.” It clipped out of her mouth and was snipped short.

“That’s nice,” Castle said, ignoring the sharp tone, and hugged her. “Now can I have some coffee, please? I’m cold.”

Beckett stared at him.

“You promised me coffee,” he pouted. “You brought me here under false pretences and you’re going to deny me the elixir of continued life and wakefulness.” The stare acquired a familiar edge of irritated bafflement. “Surely you can’t be that cruel?”

“If you let go of me, I might be able to make it,” Beckett snipped at him. “Right now, I can’t get to the kitchen or the kettle.”

“Don’t you like being hugged?” Castle stared pathetically at her, his lower lip still slightly protruded. He could see her eyes beginning to fleck gold, and dropping to the small pout, then being wrenched away again; dropping, pulled away… _Gotcha, Beckett_.

“Yes, but _you_ wanted coffee – urk!”

Castle had hugged her a good deal harder, and compounded his misdeeds by dropping a kiss on her nose.

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you, like you like.”

“Is this English?” Beckett asked the air. “He’s supposed to be a writer.”

“I _am_ a writer!”

Beckett snickered. In self-defence, Castle pecked her nose again. Unfortunately, she’d lifted her head, and he landed quite, quite accidentally – but serendipitously – on her lips. As he’d discovered the previous time, Beckett’s lips were irresistible, and he didn’t even try to resist. She parted, only a fraction, but enough – and he dived right in, tasting heaven, conquering Elysium. His hands slipped under her coat, then came around to undo its buttons and push it from her slim frame, letting it lie where it fell; then returned and opened his own coat; pulled her back in without the hindrance of thick fabric or fastenings.

Just like the last time, she kissed him back; her own slim hands avid at his neck, pulling his head to her, trying to position him for her counter-invasion, stretching up and plastered against him from crown to toes, fitting perfectly. He’d never let her go, given half a chance.

Oh. Oh, Beckett. Oh, _Beckett_. Her hands were _under_ his shirt and the flesh was cool but her touch _burned_. He returned it in kind, tugging her shirt from her pants and sliding one wide palm on to her back: smooth skin, small bumps of vertebrae, taut muscle and no softness at all from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. There was softness at the front, though, presently pressed to his own chest. He kissed her harder, deeper, proving his passion on her mouth until there was nothing but her responses and an answering heat that seeped through his skin and down his synapses to gather at his groin. Hands roamed more freely, mouths stayed locked to each other, hard hot weight pressed against soft hot space; her leg came up and she pushed in closer still, until he couldn’t take it any more and hoisted her up to carry her, legs wrapped around him, to her bedroom. He didn’t – couldn’t – stop kissing her for an instant.

The only thing he noticed in the bedroom was the bed, and since the bed now contained a Beckett, ruffled and untucked, he wasn’t paying much attention to that piece of furniture either. He looked down at her, and she smiled up at him.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” she asked, and opened the first button on her shirt, parting the fabric. She didn’t get a chance to touch the second. Castle’s broad fingers flickered expertly down her front, and opened the whole thing wide without a hitch. 

And then he simply looked, eyes darkening with every instant, taking in the full glory of Beckett’s beautiful body and even more beautiful breasts, beautifully proffered in a delicate blue tracery of lace and silk. He didn’t fall upon them, though he wanted to, but trickled fingertips down the valley of cleavage, down the mid-line of her flat stomach, to the waist of her pants; flicked that button open and the zipper down, and drew them off. He smiled, slowly, openly admiring.

“Matched,” he murmured, deeper and slower than usual, a growl underlying the words. “Gorgeous.” His fingertips traced the lines of muscle in stomach and then in thighs; the cut of her quadriceps, the long length above her knee, diverting to the jut of hipbone and then back to navel. _Observing_ , through sight and touch alike, hearing the increased cadence of her breathing, and his: a different, growing, harmony; back to the staves of her ribs, a little more defined than perhaps they should be; but any slight concern lost as he returned to her face and heard the song in her gaze.

“Kiss me, Castle,” she breathed, and the music swelled as he dipped his head to her. Now, he was delicate, exploring, learning: finding the swells and dips under his hands, soft movement and none of the frantic, explosive, desire. Now, their dance was andante, not allegro; pianissimo, not pianoforte. The world slowed and stopped around them.

He touched her as if he’d always known how to play her; to bring out the music of her motion and the descant of her desire; as if he’d spent a lifetime learning her score and the articulations within it: he the conductor and she the orchestra responding to his command. His hands were assured, his mouth strong and sweet on hers; his big body warm, close, and utterly desirable. She couldn’t resist learning the planes of his back, the breadth of his chest and shoulders (and where _had_ he been hiding all those muscles?), the curve of his ass and the force in his thighs, hard between hers. She moved a fraction, and he pressed right to her centre, perfectly positioned for her to rub and roll and absorb him, her hands slipping down to strip him of pants and boxers, leave him naked to her sight and touch.

 _Ohhhhhhh_. Not _just_ muscle. _Ohhhhhhh_. _Come here, Castle._ She pulled him down to her, revelling in the bulk that pressed her into her soft sheets and firm mattress; loving the gentle forcefulness that owned her mouth and let her know that here was a man (oh, _such_ a man) that knew what he was doing and how to do it. Do her. Her hands roamed, her mouth surrendered, her legs curled around his and held him to her.

He moved around her mouth, away – _no_ – to her jawline, her cheek, a jumping nerve behind her ear which made her wriggle and mew.

“A cat!” Castle said suddenly. 

_No, no. No cats. Stop being distracted by cats and kiss me again_.

“What?”

“You sound like a cat. You behave like one, too” – _what?_ – “all cool and don’t-care and touch-me-not and secretly you want petted and fussed over. You just won’t say so.” He grinned, and stroked down her side. “Well, I like petting and fussing over you, so… c’mere, Kate, and let me ruffle your fur.”

“I’d rather you kissed me,” she noted.

“I can do both,” he suggested, and demonstrated that it was indeed possible to ruffle her fur, as it were, and kiss her, and indeed remove any remaining garments to make both actions easier. 

She could really, really get used to this. Him. Both. And then he did something to her mouth that left her entirely unable to think at all, and she drowned in the sensation, leaving everything to her instincts and desire, all of which pointed in the direction of enjoying Castle’s expertise – and letting him enjoy hers – for some considerable time. That such enjoyment would effectively stop her thinking about the season – had nothing to do with it. Of course not.

Castle noticed a hint of hesitation in Beckett’s otherwise enthusiastic responses; a momentary withdrawing; her eyes flicking through a moment of discomfort: so short it almost wasn’t there at all, and then swept away by renewed desire as she gripped his back and hauled him back to her. He’d worry about it later, he thought; and then stopped thinking at all. He didn’t need to think, all he needed was his five senses.

The soft noises she made as he moved from her lips downward were music to his ears; her smooth skin, swelling to neat curves with hard pink tips, was a picture painted by an Old Master; the trail of her fingers over his back and the hard clutch as she held him were surely the touches of angels; a zephyr of her scent drifted to his nose; and when he set his lips to her breast she tasted of heaven.

Skin brushed skin, heat met hardness, bodies joined to fill the waiting space and surround flesh; and then there was only motion and magnificence, and then crescendo and completion; and then a coda, as they stayed, still joined, curled together in the rumpled sheets, as close as could be.

Eventually, Castle separated himself from Beckett. “You’re amazing,” he breathed, still holding her. “That was incredible.” She gave a happy little noise and nestled into him; he tightened his arms a little and luxuriated in the feel of naked, sated Beckett against him.

“Stay?” she murmured.

“Sure, just so long as Mother’s at home for Alexis. Lemme check.”

“I’ll go wash.”

It wasn’t till Beckett had rolled out of bed and Castle had found his phone to the background noise of the shower running, that he realised that he could have joined her in the shower. He rapidly established that his mother would be staying at home that night, monumentally failed to explain why he would not be home, leaving her with the impression that there was a new body, and reached Beckett’s bathroom just in time to see her swathing herself in a large towel. He really couldn’t help the disappointed sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“All that loveliness all wrapped up,” Castle sighed, gazing sadly at the enveloping towel. 

“Have a shower,” she said briskly, and shut the door as she left the bathroom.

When he drooped back into the bedroom, Beckett was sitting on the bed, still wrapped in her towel. As she heard his footsteps, she stood up, ran her gaze up and down him – and dropped the towel. “Where were we?” she asked, but Castle knew precisely where they were, and had already reached her.

“Right here,” he said, and plopped her on to the bed. “Right where we should be.” He lay down beside her, and she turned into him, kissed him, and then tucked into his waiting arm, head over his heart. “Come up here.” He pulled her over him, and kissed her back, much harder. She wriggled, and he shifted, and rolled them, and he’d swear he could hear the swelling music as they moved in perfect harmony again.

They fell asleep almost instantly, wrapped up in each other, only pausing to tug the comforter over themselves.

Castle woke early, nuzzled his nose into Beckett’s hair – and then realised that he had to get out of bed, get washed, get dressed – and get home. In that order. He would much rather get up, as it were, _stay_ in bed, and _not_ get dressed. Yet. Unfortunately, just occasionally he needed to be an adult, and now was one of those times.

“I’ve got to go,” he whispered.

“Urgh.”

“Beckett, I have to go home.”

“Ugh. ‘Kay then.” Her eyes levered a fraction open. “See you later.”

“Sure.”

He thought he heard a _clunk_ as her eyelids thudded shut again.


	9. Chapter 9

Beckett woke up at her usual time, wondered briefly and sluggishly why her bed carried the aroma of Castle’s cologne – and then woke up fully as she remembered the previous night. Her whole body remembered the previous night, and it would be very, _very_ happy to repeat it. She sternly told herself to calm down, but every time she felt the slight burn between her legs, every time she caught a whiff of Castle’s scent, every time she remembered anything about it; every time, her mouth curved upwards and a smile threatened to break free from her lips. She even sang in the shower, full voice and raised heart: joyful songs; and when she was dressed and ready to go, she unwrapped her baubles, ready to string them later. They’d go along the top of her bookcase, maybe, or around a mirror.

By lunchtime, Espo and Ryan were regarding her with amazement, well mixed with a desire to grill her into charcoal. Or possibly grill Castle, who might know why Beckett wasn’t glaring the rest of the bullpen into terrified compliance with any vague wish she might express, up to and including bringing her the moon and stars on a stick.

Until Beckett’s e-mail pinged, she evidently read it, and her face turned black with rage. Her mouth opened, the world trembled, the bullpen collectively ducked and Montgomery closed his office door – and she looked at Castle and slammed her mouth shut. He could almost see the lava of her fury erupting from the top of her head, like some fire goddess. She surged up from her chair, and stormed out into the elevator and down, out into the frigid air of New York in December without so much as a coat.

Her coat over his arm, Castle went after her. He was pretty sure he’d find her in the nearest coffee bar, tipping back double espressos till caffeine came out of the ends of her hair, though there was a chance she’d gone to a park to incinerate the snow into superheated steam first. He couldn’t see geyser-like plumes, so he made for the coffee bar.

Sure enough, behind – a mug? _Not_ double espresso? Oh. He’d come close enough to see the contents, which looked thick and black enough to resurface highways. How’d she persuaded the baristas to serve her _that_? Was it even coffee?

“I brought your coat,” he said. Her eyes flared at his voice. “Want some more coffee? I’m cold, so I’m getting myself one.”

The mug jerked, and her throat convulsed as she swallowed, draining the – stuff. It didn’t look like any fluid Castle would pour down his throat.

“Please,” she growled, and handed the mug back to a quivering barista.

“And a latte for me,” Castle added. “Extra large.” 

He steered Beckett’s infuriated form to a table, and sat down next to her. His arm crept around her shoulders, alert for any resistance, but she relaxed into him.

“So what happened?” he asked, when their drinks were in front of them.

“That” – he put his hands over his ears. Beckett was swearing like a docker, all directed at O’Leary’s oversized interference. Eventually, she ran down – “…and bloody bedamned _Ben_ wants us there this evening. You and me. He’s found us a duet.”

“Oh, _shit_.”

“Yeah.” She drained her sludge. “ _King Of Kings_ by Betsy Lee Bailey. Baritone/mezzo. I am going to _kill_ O’Leary!”

“You – we – don’t have to do it,” Castle tried.

“But then Ben’ll look at me like I’m drowning kittens and I can’t deal with that.”

“Bit like me and the baritone solo.”

“Yeah.” She slumped. “We’re not going to be popular.”

“Blame it on O’Leary. It’s all his fault.”

“Oh, I _will_. You just bet I will.”

“So what time do we need to be there?”

“Six-thirty. And then I’m going to go home and pour down wine till my eyes cross.”

Castle looked at the top of her head, which managed to radiate crackling fury as effectively as her eyes. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to yours and get takeout and, um, investigate some other harmonies.” He winked salaciously. Beckett growled. “We make beautiful music together,” he continued.

“That line is even older than you are.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong.”

“It makes you a cliché.”

“It’s because I woke up too early. My authorial expertise and command of language is still asleep.”

She rolled her eyes, but the fury was receding, which was all that Castle wanted to achieve for now. They meandered back to the bullpen with less chance of mayhem, which was greeted with some (unspoken but clearly heard) relief. 

***

At six-twenty Castle and Beckett began to make their decidedly _un_ merry way to the church, to meet Ben. Beckett groused all the way there. Even Castle’s normal cheerful joy about all things Christmas had taken a serious dent.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Ben carolled. “Colm told me that your voices were amazing together so I wanted to talk to you about a duet.” He smiled angelically. “We’ve never tried a duet before because…well, while we have so many good female singers the men are, well, um…less keen or, um, less able to solo. Except for Colm, of course, but bass is so difficult to match with anything and the music for a bass solo is just too complex for this choir…” He trailed off, with a hopeful expression on his face that neither Beckett nor Castle could bear to remove. “Will you have a look?”

They looked at each other, equally trapped and terrified. “Okay,” they said reluctantly.

Ben beamed. “Here we are.” He handed them the scores. “Have a look through and then we’ll give it a go.”

They sat down in the nearest pew and began to study the music. After thirty seconds Beckett moved as far away from Castle as she possibly could. 

“What’d I do?” he asked plaintively.

“You’re humming it. I can’t follow my line with you buzzing in my ear.”

“Sorry. I won’t” –

“You will. You won’t even know you’re doing it.” Beckett turned her shoulder firmly away from his puppy-dog look, stuffed fingers in her ears, and went back to the mezzo part.

“Okay,” she said after a few more minutes. “Ben, do you have something that’ll play the music?”

Ben produced an i-Pod.

“Can you play it through so I can hear the tune before I sing?”

Castle stayed quiet. Beckett – as ever – seemed to have matters firmly in hand. She made Ben play it through four times before she finally said, “Okay. Let’s try it.”

Ben reset the i-Pod and put one finger on the start: his other hand poised to give the beat. “Ready? Go.” The introduction swelled, and they began.

Ben stared at them when they’d finished. His eyes were moist. “I didn’t believe Colm. I really didn’t. Okay, so that had some pretty rough edges – and Rick, that note there is _not_ B-flat” – Castle winced – “nor, Kate, is _that_ an F – but your voices are perfect together and with a couple more practices it’ll be wonderful. Perfect for the season, and utterly wonderful.” He smiled as sweetly as a cherub. “So let’s do it again, and this time I’ll stop you if it’s not right.”

***

Two hours later Castle and Beckett staggered out of the church, exhausted and hungry. Ben had been autocratically perfectionist: insisting on pitch, timing and full value of every single note.

“Why did I agree?” Beckett complained.

“Why did _I_?” Castle whined. “My throat feels like it’s been sandpapered and if I don’t eat soon I’ll faint.”

“We were going to do takeout.”

“I want Remy’s,” Castle disagreed. “I want a juicy burger and at least a gallon of milkshake. Maybe then I’ll be able to talk tomorrow.”

“Not Remy’s, then,” Beckett snickered. “The thought of silence all day tomorrow is just too good.” 

Castle growled darkly. “Remy’s, Beckett,” he pronounced, with a rasp that indicated just how hard Ben had worked them.

“Okay. I could do with a large strawberry milkshake too.”

“And I want something else,” Castle added.

“Mm?” Beckett wasn’t really paying attention, being more inclined to avoid the slushy puddles attacking her boots and the glitters of tinsel and decorations that offended her eyes along the way. Usually, singing soothed her, but the prospect of not just her solo, but the duet, was twisting her stomach. She didn’t want to be quite such a prominent part of the choir. It was no consolation that Castle was as reluctant as she, with better reason.

He slung an arm around her waist and pulled her in as far as coats would allow. “I want to hug you,” he said over her surprised huff, “because we sounded great and that’s because of you.” He grinned. “I wish I’d discovered that choir earlier.”

They turned into Remy’s, which was close to deserted – unsurprisingly this late in the evening – ordered, and barely drew breath (certainly there was no talking) until most of the first milkshakes were gone. More were requested, and disappeared, along with the burgers, almost as quickly as the first ones, but as soon as the repast had been finished, Castle calmly took possession of Beckett’s elegant fingers. She pulled a little, not really meaning it, and smiled.

“Something more you want? Dessert?”

“Something like that.” He smiled back, lazily heated: an invitation that needed no words. “Coffee, perhaps?”

“And if I want dessert?”

“Then dessert there shall be. Brownies?”

“Yes, please.” He couldn’t help a little sigh of disappointment. “To go, and coffee at mine.” 

“What a perfectly wonderful compromise,” Castle said suavely. “Allow me to fulfil your wishes.”

“That was rather the idea,” Beckett husked.

They were at her apartment in almost no time; the brownies made it to the kitchen, but coffee was notable by its absence from either mouth. Of course, that might have been because the mouths in question were already fully occupied with each other, and there were no free hands to lift a cup. At some point, communication occurred, possibly through telepathy, as without any words they moved towards the bedroom. The trail of coats and outerwear strewn across the floor took them to the couch, the trail of shirts and pants almost to the bedroom door.

Frantic mouths and hands begat frantic movement and desperate noises; fingers sought and found and gripped and slid; legs tangled and bodies thrust and arched and came together; and finally calm descended.

“Uh, what just happened?”

“Uh, you kissed me, and, er, well…”

“ _You_ kissed me!”

“No, you kissed me first!”

“Didn’t!”

“Did!”

“Did not. You fell on me like an aggravated octopus and I didn’t get the chance” –

Castle squawked with indignation. “I am _not_ an octopus!” Suddenly his brain caught up with his ears. “You were going to kiss me?” he asked in a very different tone. “Well, now,” he drawled. “I’m sure we could arrange that.” He turned over on to his back, and used the arm still circled around Beckett to pull her over him. Then he waited, petting down her back, stroking. She wriggled, leaving a warm trail downwards, and stopped, balanced at a physiologically significant point. Castle moved. He hadn’t meant to, but she was _right there_ ; warm and close and wet and open over him. His hips pushed up; Beckett slid down – and just as he was fully within her, she leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth.

“You wanted a kiss?” she teased. He grinned wolfishly, nodded, and flipped her to take her mouth himself as he took her oh-so-willing body, and all thought, teasing and speech disappeared in the hot joy of their lovemaking.

“I have to go home,” he confessed, much later.

“I guess,” but it came out reluctant, and her hand clutched his shoulder. Equally reluctant, he washed and dressed, kissed her with a promise of the next day in his lips.

Alone, her room felt cooler, but when she pulled the pillow to her, still dented from Castle’s head, still carrying his aroma, it kept her more than warm enough.

***

Before she left for work, Beckett strung her baubles on a length of green twine, neatly knotted to hold them evenly apart. A bite of pain gnawed at her stomach, but she forced it down. She _would_ do this. It was – it _had_ to be – time to move forward. She hung it over the window, where the evening light would illuminate it. Not that she’d be home at that time. She wouldn’t see it till the weekend. She ignored the tingle of relief following that thought, and swung out to go to work.

At the end of a tedious day in which nothing of note happened, Beckett was only too glad to leave, though she was not looking forward to the reaction of the other sopranos to the duet. On the other hand, she would have a chance to torture O’Leary, with a little well-judged maiming to lighten her spirits further. Her smile edged sharply over her teeth.

The smile reduced as she failed to spot O’Leary in the church, and tightened as he lumbered in with less than a minute to go. She had no doubt that his timing was totally deliberate. He grinned at her, which she returned with a vicious baring of teeth, and then at Castle, who said something which she couldn’t make out but which produced some worry on O’Leary’s moon face. Good. He should be worried. Very worried.

They took the full choir songs first, then the cantata. Castle, paler and far more focused than usual, nevertheless produced a baritone that warmed Beckett all the way to her booted toes. His voice sounded through the church as if it were the very first herald of joy. The choir collectively gasped, which didn’t improve their entrances after the solo. Anton barely managed to sing at all. O’Leary beamed as if he were personally responsible for Castle’s velvety smooth sound.

“Okay,” Ben said, and drifted into a list of points for the choir. “Let’s do it again, and this time, each group be ready for your re-entry after the solo.”

The second time round was far better – probably because the surprise had worn off. Anton still looked as if he’d eaten a hornet, but managed not to fluff the choral lines.

“Now, _Once in Royal David’s City_ , and then we’ve one more thing after that.” Ben smiled sweetly. “A surprise!” he said happily. The choir, apart from O’Leary, Castle and Beckett, looked confused. Ben didn’t give them time to express it, and signalled for silence. Beckett’s voice rose up in the first verse, piercing the hush with the old hymn, and, precisely on the mark, the rest of the choir came in.

“Very nice,” Ben praised them. “Now, we’re going to add one extra song.” The choir groaned. It was, clearly, far too late to be adding extra songs. “Don’t worry. This one’s a duet – we’ve never had both voices before, but now we do. Rick and Kate are going to sing _King Of Kings_ by Betsy Lee Bailey.” The choir gasped again.

“He’s not even been here a minute!” Anton cried. “How come he gets solos and the rest of us don’t?”

Ben opened his mouth, but O’Leary got there first. “You ain’t a baritone, first off,” he pointed out, “an’ you _had_ a solo but just like every other time when it gets to the nuts an’ bolts you can’t do it. You got the yips, Anton, an’ if I was Ben I wouldn’t have bothered with you this year at all.” O’Leary produced a scowl that would have cut rock, and Anton cringed and hid.

“That’s enough,” Ben said firmly. “I’m choirmaster, and _I_ decide what we do. If Rick and Kate can’t deliver, we won’t include it.”

“No pressure, then,” Beckett said sarcastically.

“Take a moment, for everyone to calm down, and the rest of you sit down. I want you two to be able to see each other.” Ben didn’t explain why, but Beckett, and from the look on his face Castle too, was grateful. It would be easier if she simply focused on his eyes: she didn’t have to be near them to know how he looked at her, the warmth, appreciation, and love – ohmygod ohshit ohgod – she cut off the panic in her head and focused on her music. She’d schedule her breakdown in later.

Ben tapped his lectern, and when both of them were fully focused on him, swept them into the duet.

The last note fell, and there was total silence –

And then the choir _applauded_.

“Well done,” Ben said temperately. “I think we’ll go with it.” He paused. “Kate?”

“Yeah, sure, okay,” she said, from where she’d half-flopped into the pew. “Great.”

“Okay, we’re done for tonight. See you all on Friday.” Ben began to gather his scores, and the vast majority of the choir filed out. Beckett didn’t. She needed a moment or two, to collect her scattered thoughts and, now that she wasn’t singing, schedule in her panic attack. On balance, she thought she’d better have it at home, where there resided both chocolate ice cream and vodka.

Both Castle and O’Leary noticed Beckett’s failure to move. One swift exchange of glances later, they appeared on each side of her and plonked themselves down. The pew creaked alarmingly, which caused her to raise her head.

“Beer?” O’Leary said. “Why’re you still sittin’ here when we could be sinkin’ a cold beer in the bar?”

“I don’t want one,” Beckett replied. “I just wanna go home.”

“Aw” –

“Home, O’Leary.”

“I’ll take you home,” Castle offered. O’Leary pushed out his lower lip like a giant toddler, and humphed. Castle tutted at him. “My mother taught me manners. Along with how to make a Martini and a hangover cure, and how to apply stage make-up, which were all more important to her at the time, but she did.”

Beckett stood up, and started, almost stumbling over her feet, for the door. O’Leary threw Castle a _you’d better fix this_ scowl, and lumbered after them, by which time Castle had caught up with Beckett and, without needing to think about it, had wrapped an arm around her. He didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t need to. He’d seen everything he ever wanted to see in her eyes as they’d sung together, and he’d _also_ seen the panic flare as she’d realised just what _she_ could see in his. He hadn’t panicked. Anything but panicked, in fact. He hailed a taxi, inserted Beckett, followed her in and re-wrapped her, and didn’t say anything all the way to her apartment, though his smile would have lit Times Square.


	10. Chapter 10

As Castle walked in, the first thing he noticed was the baubles strung above the window. The second thing he noticed was that he was gritting his teeth so firmly that they were almost cracking, in order not to comment. And the third thing was that Beckett was looking anywhere but at the baubles and tree – or at him.

He turned her within the crook of his arm and gently tipped her chin up. “What’s up?” he asked, to no avail. Her eyes didn’t meet his. “Coffee? I could really use something to drink after choir.”

“Sure.” She kicked her shoes off, trailed to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Castle followed, and, once she was finished with the kettle, came up behind her and pulled her back into his chest, linking his hands around her stomach.

“Snuggle in,” he said comfortably. “I need a chin rest, and without those heels on you’re the perfect height.”

“You what now?” she sparked.

“Chin rest. You. Perfect height.” He demonstrated.

“Get off!” She ducked her head away from him.

“Awww, but” –

“No! I’m not a head rest.” She spun around – and Castle took full advantage to bend down and kiss her, briefly but thoroughly.

“There,” he said. “That’s better. Now, what’s up? You looked like a bus had hit you at the end of the duet.” His hands still cupped her face. “Did you sing that badly? I didn’t notice, but then I was concentrating on my own perfect diction and pitch, so I might have missed it.”

“I sang just fine,” Beckett snipped. “It was just…”

“It was great,” Castle stated. “ _We_ were great. Now c’mere so I can kiss you properly.” She didn’t move, but her eyes flickered away, landed on the baubles, and filled. She buried her face in his shirt, shoulders shuddering, soundlessly weeping.

“I can’t do this,” she sobbed.

“Do what? Because you can surely sing. Your voice is fabulous, and it’s really unfair you didn’t tell me you could sing and about the choir much earlier because I would have come along” –

“Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“I tried but I just can’t and there’s you being all Christmassy and joyful and I just _hate_ everything about Christmas except choir.”

Oh. Ah. Castle looked down at the top of Beckett’s brunette head and simply cossetted for a moment, for once thinking about what he might say, rather than simply blurting out the first ten thoughts that hit his brain. In lieu of speaking, he manoeuvred them to the couch and sat down, plopping Beckett next to him and tucking her in.

“Does it matter?” he eventually asked.

“Huh?”

“Does it matter that you hate Christmas? I mean, what you do with your Christmas is up to you. If you want to have takeout and vodka with ice-cream for dessert that’s fine.”

Only soggy silence resulted.

“You don’t have to have decorations and a tree. Anyway a real tree drops its needles and you have no _idea_ how painful it is trying to extract needles from a screaming three-year old’s feet. There’s no magic in that _at all_. If there had been I’d’ve magicked up earplugs. Or anaesthetic. I did think about feeding her whiskey but Child Services wouldn’t have approved.”

“I guess not,” Beckett managed, but it barely carried any snark.

“No. I can’t imagine why. You’d have thought that an appreciation of good whiskey was a fundamental life skill – Beckett?”

She’d turned right away from him and was sobbing again. 

Oh _crap_. He’d just hit one of her buttons, hadn’t he? Her father…he thought back. Five years sober… oh, _crap_. He hauled her round and into his lap, cuddled her close into his shoulder and petted down her back. “I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said, but she only cried harder. “Please, Kate, stop crying,” he pleaded, and only then realised that she wasn’t pulling _away_ from him.

“It was awful, but we fixed it, but I can’t…” She dissolved again. Castle petted some more. It seemed that it was the only thing he could do, while he thought about her sobbed-out words.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna,” he soothed. “It’s okay if you don’t like Christmas. Just as long as you take care of yourself.”

She positively bawled. Obviously that had been a misstep too. His shirt was developing a cold, wet patch right over his collarbone.

“I want to,” she sniffled, “but then I remember and” –

“And work makes you forget,” he said, remembering O’Leary’s words. “Because you can use all your thinking on the case, and nothing else.”

“Yeah,” she dragged, still leaning on him, still dripping miserably into his now-soaked shirt. “But I don’t _wanna_ any more, so I tried, but it isn’t working.”

“Why do you want to change? It worked for you up till now, so why do something different?”

“I just – it’s been five _years_ and I should be over it and ten since… and I have to _move on_.”

“Yeah, but why this way?”

A protracted silence followed, but at least the dampness had stopped spreading through Castle’s shirt.

“You,” a very small voice emitted.

 _Me_? Castle thought, but didn’t articulate. _What_? He continued to pet and cosset, which seemed to be having a really good effect – or at least, was soothing Beckett out of her tears.

“You really love it all and you’re so _happy_ about it and it’s just so different…” she snuffled “…and I… Mom _died_ and it spoiled it all and I want to be happy but I just remember her and our last Christmas together.” She dissolved yet again.

“Hey, hey,” Castle murmured. “It’s okay if you’re still grieving. There aren’t any rules about how you should feel or how soon.” He parked the comments about his views on Christmas for later consideration, though it sounded very like Beckett was trying to change her views because of him, which was, well, astounding. “You made your soup, and you shared it with me: isn’t that enough memory for now?”

“She would always make extra, just in case…she said if anyone ever came to the door hungry at Christmas then she’d have something to give them. Dad would just smile, but he never objected.”

“The true spirit,” Castle agreed softly.

“She gave. She was really big on giving when we were so fortunate and then she was murdered and how is _that_ fortunate? She did everything to help people and got killed.” She swallowed. “How did that help _us_? Dad sank his head in a bottle and didn’t come out for five years and I” – she stopped, gulped again, and continued – “sank my head in work and haven’t come out at all.”

“But you sing.”

“I could lose myself in the music and remember Mom without it being so bad.” She sniffed. “I used to think maybe she could still hear it…but that was just a silly fantasy to get me through. Wherever she is, she’s gone on.” Tears started to trickle again. “Gone on without us. I miss her.”

“Of course,” Castle breathed. “Of course you do. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay. It’s never okay. I went into Macy’s on Saturday and I don’t even know how I got out of there.”

“Uh?”

“I was going to buy some stuff” – her eyes dropped away, skittering around and not landing on the tree or baubles – “and I went in but it was just like when we went when I was small and I couldn’t bear it.” She sniffed, but didn’t start to cry again. “So I just came home. I didn’t even unwrap the baubles I bought in Bryant Park. And then I had a lot of wine and went to bed and the next day I went to work till Montgomery threw me out.” She took a deep breath. “And then I bought a wreath because I was _trying_.”

“That was the package,” Castle said suddenly. “You put it up, even though you hate Christmas. And” – he looked around – “you did unwrap the baubles, because they’re there. So you _are_ trying. And succeeding.” He hugged her hard. “You _are_.”

“I am?”

“Sure you are. Anyone who can sing the Christmas songs like you can knows more about the _real_ meaning of Christmas than you believe. You can hear it in your voice. And you give all the time, to all the victims and all their families.” His voice took on full confidence in his argument. “You give as much as your mother did, in your own way. So you’re following in her footsteps – helping others, at Christmas and the rest of the year. It doesn’t matter if you hang up the baubles or a wreath or decorate a tree – the real spirit is giving. _Unto us a Son is given_ ,” he quoted. “It’s all about giving. And you do. You celebrate Christmas just as much as – more than – anyone else.”

She stared at him, reddened, damp eyes wide, hair mussed where she’d lain against his shoulder and sobbed her heart out, a pressure-patch on her cheek, red, beginning to fade; and scrubbed at her eyes, pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table and blew her nose. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.” He hugged her again, and made sure that he met her eyes squarely. “Really. _Please_ don’t start crying again, Beckett. It’s not natural for you to be crying. I might start crying, and then we’ll really be in trouble. Your floors might flood and we’ll upset the people downstairs when their ceiling collapses and then we’ll be sued for damage and lose all our money and what will we do then?”

“You’re insane,” she managed with a decent covering of normal, though soggy, snark. “None of that is going to happen.”

“You’ve soaked my shirt,” Castle said provocatively, “so what’s going to happen about that?”

She slipped off his knee, which certainly hadn’t been Castle’s hope, and shortly returned with a towel. 

“I could put your shirt in the dryer,” she offered, strangely uncertain, and handed him the towel. 

He scrubbed at the shirt, achieving very little, and considered. “Okay,” he said. “I think it needs dried, or I might get icicles on it as I go home. You wouldn’t want my heart to freeze, would you – like Kai in the Snow Queen?”

“Not medically possible.”

“You talk to Lanie far too much,” Castle grumbled.

“Don’t try to bamboozle me, then.”

His eyes lit with appreciation for the word. “Okay, no bamboozling. How about coffee, since we never made any, while my shirt dries? I can’t go out with no shirt on. I really would freeze.”

“Okay.”

Castle thought that Beckett sounded less miserable, and when he sneaked a glance at her, she seemed more thoughtful and less bereaved. He stripped his shirt, which sadly failed to produce any flare of desire in her face, and swapped it for the towel, which he swathed around his chilled chest. The shirt entered the dryer and started to spin around slowly, the kettle boiled and the coffee began to brew. In all that time, Beckett had said nothing, but now she had become pensive. She made the coffee, brought mugs and coffee pot to the small table in front of her couch, and poured: movements precise and controlled, and then sipped the coffee: likewise delicate, precise and controlled. 

If it hadn’t been for the scalding heat of the coffee, on which Castle had burnt his tongue, he’d almost think that she was perfectly restored to normal, but he knew that when something was wrong, Beckett’s throat and mouth became coated with asbestos as she threw back coffee so hot it could almost be superheated steam. He put a gentle arm around her, and snuggled himself up close. She hesitated, and then nestled herself into him, curled against his side, a hand reaching out for his and finding it. Her cold fingers twined into his, but still she didn’t speak.

Her cellphone cheeped, loud in the silence. Automatically, she reached for it, opened the message, and grimaced.

“What is it?”

“Ben wants us to rehearse tomorrow, on our own. Ugh.”

“Yeah.”

Gloom descended. Singing was all very well – and singing duets with Beckett was wonderful – but Ben had proved to be a tyrannical taskmaster, and Castle liked ease and comfort. Thinking of which…he cuddled Beckett close in, which was both easy and comforting; dropped a kiss on her hair, ditto; and then buried his nose in the dark tresses and enveloped her. She softened into him, and gave a contented little hum, then turned herself in his arm and nestled firmly into his lap, her own nose nuzzled into the join between his neck and shoulder, her arm coming around him to hold him just as close. They stayed entwined for some little time.

Beckett breathed in aroma-de-Castle: slightly spicy, totally male, and relaxed against him, cheered and comforted by his earlier words. Maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t been doing _everything_ wrong for the last ten years. Maybe, unwittingly, she’d been doing something right, even if she hadn’t known it. In which case, she could take baby steps, and not force herself to feel discomfort in the name of progress.

Castle hadn’t disapproved, she also realised. He’d said to do it her way. He hadn’t suggested taking her shopping or produced baubles or tinsel, tutted at her tiny tree or commented on her lack of festivity. He’d…accepted. Just like he accepted calls at strange hours, sitting shotgun in her cruiser, and the appalling chair by her desk which had been all that they could find him; just like he accepted the banter – and gave it back with interest – or O’Leary’s meddling. He wasn’t trying to change her, as she – oh, admit it, Kate – didn’t want him to change, however much she muttered darkly about his childish ways, or annoying commentary, or insane theories. She wouldn’t _want_ him to change.

Because when it _mattered_ , he was there, doing the right thing in the right way.

She turned her head a fraction, and pressed her lips to his neck. A deep, happy noise emerged from his chest, and his hand slipped to her face, tilting it upward to meet his kiss. She leaned in, and kissed him back, deep and sure, taking his mouth as though she’d always known it would be there, waiting for her. She melted into his broad form, and let him take back the kiss, as strong and sure as she had been, and then they allowed each other to touch, and taste, and play.

“Bedroom?” Castle asked.

“Comfier. Yeah.”

He swept her up, and there was no more talking, only touching, and teasing, and then triumphant climax and peaceful, close-cuddled quiet: his arm around her, her head on his chest, their legs tangled.

“The choir clapped,” Castle said happily. “We must have been great.”

“I don’t know. I just sang. I wasn’t thinking of anything else except us doing the duet.”

“All I was focusing on was you,” Castle admitted. 

Beckett squirmed. “Um…me too.” She hid her face, though Castle could feel the blush against his skin.

“We are great together. Songs – and this.”

“Mmm. Yes.” She snuggled up, and hugged him around the shoulders. “Do you have to go?” Underlying it, he heard _I’d like you to stay_.

“Yeah. I can’t guarantee Mother is home, and, well…”

“I get it.” She smiled sleepily. “When it’s important, you do it right.” Castle goggled. “What you said earlier, about giving, that was right – it really helped. _You_ helped.”

He was still digesting that statement when he arrived home, grinning like a fool.

***

Just over a week later, the choir assembled, formally robed and ready for the Christmas Eve service. The church was packed, but the choir, facing each other in the choir stalls, were deterred from looking around by Ben’s dictatorial gaze and growl.

The candles on the altar were lit, the minister gave Ben the signal, and Ben gave the upstroke. Beckett’s mezzo soared through the church, glorious and clear, summoning the Christmas story and conjuring Bethlehem on a cold winter’s night, far away and long ago, but present now, here, in the small church. The rest of the choir and the congregation joined for the second verse, and when the hymn finished and the service began, a reverent hush fell. The lessons and the hymns and songs had never sounded so clear; never carried such expectancy. When the cantata began, and then within it Castle’s rich, velvet baritone rang to the rafters with his solo, the glory of the Child who was awaited began to swell; and the minister’s sermon was heard with awe and respect. Finally, before the blessing and the closing hymn, Castle and Beckett stood, the others stayed sitting, and the duet filled the church. Tears could be seen on some of the congregation’s faces, and Ben’s eyes filled. As they finished, there was utter, absolute silence, as if some greater Power was listening too.

And then it was over. The organ voluntary ushered the minister out, followed by the choir, to remove their robes and shed the reverence and glory of their songs. Castle, Beckett and O’Leary were slower to disrobe than the others, each of them lost in thought.

“There’s mulled wine and mince pies in the vestry,” Ben said. “Are you coming?”

“In a moment,” Beckett said. Ben left, and only the three of them remained.

“That was wonderful,” Castle said softly. “I didn’t expect the church to be so full.”

“Christmas,” Beckett said. O’Leary didn’t comment, shifting uncomfortably from massive foot to massive foot. She cast him a suspicious glance. “O’Leary? What did you do?”

“Nuthin’,” he muttered. Beckett glared. _Castle_ glared. “Um, well, I might have mentioned the choir to” –

“You did what?”

“An’ I think they might’ve come,” he added. “They’ll be waitin’ for you two to come out.”

“You can go out first. Give us a minute,” Beckett said decisively. O’Leary, slightly hangdog, shuffled out, and the cheerful noise level in the vestry rose noticeably.

Beckett turned to Castle, now that they were alone in the choir robing room. “That was amazing,” she murmured. “I couldn’t have sounded like that without you.” She stretched up a little and kissed him. “Thank you.”

Castle grinned. “We were superb, so let’s go take our bows.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

She smiled, rather twisted. “Let’s go see what O’Leary’s done. I’m never going to be allowed to forget this, am I?”

“Nope.”

They emerged into bedlam. As Beckett looked around, she was surrounded by – oh, _hell_ – Lanie, Ryan, Espo – oh _fuck,_ Montgomery – and at least two-thirds of the bullpen. All of them clamoured at her until she couldn’t make out a single word. Castle stood, solid and sure, at her back. Lanie’s twang soared over the hubbub.

“Thought you hated Christmas, girlfriend! What’s this you been hiding all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Beckett looked around, at the throng of amazed, admiring looks: the warmth and the joy – and her heart soared. She took a breath.

“Shush!” she yelled, and everyone fell silent. “Ben? Where are you?”

“Here,” he said. “What?” She whispered in his ear. “Okay. Colm?”

“Yeah?” Colossus asked, and bent down. Beckett whispered in his ear. “Okay,” he said, and hummed.

Beckett opened her mouth, and sang.

_God rest ye merry, Gentlemen_

_Let nothing you dismay_

_For Jesus Christ our Saviour_

_Was born this Christmas Day_

_To save this world from Satan’s power_

_When we had gone astray_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy_

_Oh tidings of comfort and joy_

And then everyone joined in.

“You’re my comfort and joy,” she whispered to Castle, and stepped back into his waiting arms.

**_Fin._ **


End file.
